


Come Into My Castle

by Gefionne



Series: Songs of Ice and Fire [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne/pseuds/Gefionne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SanSan AU: After her marriage to Harry the Heir, Sansa and her new husband travel North to retake Winterfell.  Harry is killed in the fighting, leaving Sansa to rule and rebuild. Now a woman of eighteen, she is the capable and kind mistress of her family's home. When a group of septons from the Quiet Isle arrives, so does Sandor Clegane. Far to the South, war rages between the armies of King Tommen Baratheon and Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen from across the sea. And to the North the White Walkers amass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is on indefinite hold. I'm very sorry, but things have gotten in the way of updating and it's very hard to pick back up after a year or so. I'll remove this note if I do return to it in the future.

###  **I**

Sansa was singing with the common women as they planted new vegetables in the glass garden.  She pushed a seed into the soil and, dipping the cup into the clay vessel of water at her side, drenched it.  In a few weeks this row would be covered with twisting vines and round squash.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her glove, leaving a trail of mud.  The sun had a golden slant that heralded the end of the short winter day.  She was chewing her lip, wondering how the masons had fared on the west wing, when her master-at-arms and blacksmith, Gendry, galloped in.  Gasping for breath, he knelt at her side.

“What’s the matter?” Sansa cried, handing him a cup of water.

“A party,” he panted, “of...septons has arrived, my lady.”

Sansa put her hands to her hips.  “Such a fuss about _septons_?  Are they riding atop dragons and carrying flaming swords?”

Gendry, who very closely resembled his father Robert Baratheon, burst out laughing.  He even had a voice as booming as the former king’s.  “Forgive me, my lady.  They are quite docile, I promise you, but the cooks were furious that I set them up in the great hall.  It’s almost suppertime and the kitchen maids were about to set the tables.”

Sansa rolled her eyes.  “You're lucky you escaped a beating with spoons.” The cooks were all good women, but merciless to trespassers.

“You're likely to get it, my lady, if you don't see them out of the kitchen's way in short order.  They have hot spiced wine and await your pleasure.”

With a sigh, Sansa rose.  “Uma, will you untie this apron?  I had best hasten to meet our guests.”

The thick women called Uma did not bother to hide her grin as she lifted the dirt-covered apron and gloves away.  “Enjoy yourself, m'lady,” she laughed.  When Sansa stuck her tongue out at her, the other girls and women giggled.  Heeding Uma’s _tsk_ ing, they set quickly back to their songs and planting.

Sansa followed Gendry out, the door silencing the merriment.  “How many of them?” she asked as she accepted his offered arm.

“Twelve, my lady.”

Her eyebrows rose.  “Where are we going to house them?”

Gendry shrugged.  “The great hall seemed to be more than adequate.  Stitch up a few straw pallets and—”

“I certainly will not see them sleeping on the floor,” Sansa said, giving him a look.

He grinned.  “You yourself slept on that floor for a month before the residences were cleaned and repaired.  They're _septons_ , my lady.  I'm sure they'd be grateful for less.  Makes them think more about their gods than sleep.”

“Or women.”

“Indeed,” Gendry snorted.  “Poor bastards.”

Unlike his loose-laced sire, Gendry had not touched another girl since he took Sansa's dressing girl to wife.  Fortunately, Lissen could still tear herself away from her marriage bed long enough to dress her lady on the rare occasion the castle received visitors.

Of course, there was no time to change before she appeared before the septons.  Her simple homespun dress laced up the back, allowing it to be adjusted to accommodate layers of wool underclothes if she was to work outside.  The glass gardens grew intensely warm on the winter's sunny days.  She had spent the day with the jolly, singing women of the gardens, and had worn only a single silk shift under the dress.  As she and Gendry made their way through the kitchen (dodging errant cutlery) and into the servants’ passageway to the great hall, the chill crept up her arms and onto the back of her neck.  She shivered as her nipples tightened and pressed against the sand-colored dress.

“You have dirt on your face, my lady,” Gendry said, looking down at her.  Licking his thumb, he gently rubbed it away.  He had expressed a desire for her many times since she had been widowed, as had many of the castle's other men.  Though she had turned them all away, the touch of Gendry's warm fingers against her cheek set her heart to thumping.

She forced a smile.  “Thank you.”  _Gendry would not have been a bad choice for a conciliatory bed mate_ , she thought despite her attempts to put the idea out of her mind.

Her husband Harrold's body had been strong, but lithe and slender, as a hunter’s should. Gendry was half a head taller and half again as broad. Sansa could feel the muscles of his forearm moving under her hand. He was handsome, with curly black hair.  His thick fingers were rough, marked with callouses and scars from many hours at the forge.  If the fingers had been a bit slenderer and longer she could easily have mistaken them for Sandor Clegane's.

Her brow furrowed.  She had not thought of the Hound in many months.  His white cloak of the Kingsguard still lay folded at the bottom of her hope chest, which sat at the foot of her bed.  She had not needed to take refuge in it since she had returned home.

Her stomach turned as she recalled the news of his death.  Clegane had saved her from Joffrey's cruelty more than once.  In spite of her debt to him, she had not properly honored his memory.  She would light a candle for him as soon as she had finished with the septons.

“Shall I act the herald, my lady?” Gendry asked, grinning, as they stopped outside the rear door into the great hall.

Sansa could not help but smile back.  “Please do.”

He threw open the door and bellowed, “Lady Sansa of House Stark, mistress of Winterfell Castle and lady protector of the Eyrie in the Vale of Arryn!”

She made a face at him as she walked past, but put on her warmest smile as she turned to the knot of men in rough-spun robes who had sprung to their feet.  “Greetings, brothers.  Please sit.  I welcome you to Winterfell.  I hope you have found the wine to your taste.”

A squat man with a braided white beard took a step forward and bowed.  “I thank you for your hospitality, my lady.  I am Lysinder.  My brothers and I have come from the Quiet Isle.”

“It has been an arduous journey for you then,” she said, sinking onto the bench next to old septon.  “I hope you will remain here for a time and rejuvenate yourselves.  We have hot baths in the lower reaches of the castle that can banish the chill from your bones.”

Lysinder bowed his head.  “Our thanks, my lady.  We have come by the will of our high septon, who wishes to understand how the people of your castle and village can produce a harvest in the depths of winter.”

Word of the glass gardens had spread like wildfire among the northern realms.  Sansa's architect had already taught a score of others to build and maintain them for their liege lords.

“I would not call it a harvest, brother, but we do indeed grow the vegetables and fruit we need.”  She smiled at each man in turn, counting them.  “You are all welcome to our glass gardens, brothers.  Manden, our architect, will tutor you.”

Lysinder took hold of her hand, squeezing.  “Your kindness is unmatched, my lady.  It is true the gods, old and new, smile upon you.”

A nearly exterminated family, a childless marriage, and a ruin of a castle did not strike her as blessings, but she said, “The gods have been kind to all of those who live at Winterfell.”

“Indeed, my lady.”  He kissed her fingers.

“Brother,” she said, extracting her hand, “I was told there were twelve in your party, yet here you are only eleven.”

“Our brother is tending to the mules,” he replied, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“One man to tend so many animals?”

“We have only two,” said a willowy brother with straw-colored hair.  He looked not a day over thirteen.  “Took turns riding.”

The others laughed at his forlorn look.

Lysinder glared, but Sansa smiled.  “In that case,  I will have more wine sent in.  Your twelfth brother will certainly be chilled.”

“You are kind, my—”  Before Brother Lysinder could finish, one of the towering doors at the back of the hall creaked open.  Although sunny, it was still bitter cold without.  Sansa further regretted her poor choice of wardrobe as the wind whipped across her face and penetrated her dress.  The door slammed shut again a moment later, revealing a septon of tremendous stature.

“Welcome to Winterfell, brother,” Sansa called, rising.  “Warm yourself by our fire.  We have wine, and supper is not long off.”

He strode up to her.  She noticed a stiffness in one of his legs.  “My thanks...my lady,” he said, voice deep and coarse.

Sansa clapped a hand to her mouth.  She knew him before he put back his hood to reveal his scarred face.

Sandor Clegane caught her by the arm, steadying her.

“My lady!” Gendry called, sprinting down the stairs to her side.  “Are you unwell?”

Sansa ignored him.  “I was told you were dead,” she said, staring up at Clegane.

“I'm not,” he growled.  His hand was still at her elbow.

“I'll be buggered,” Gendry swore.  “The Boy King's Hound.”

Clegane shot him a poison look.

“My lady and...my lord,” Lysinder said, floundering for what to call Gendry, “are acquainted with Sandor?”

Gendry put up his hands, backing away a step.  “By reputation only.  I watched the Hand's Tourney in King's Landing as a boy.  He took it.”

Most of the brothers, all young enough to have been children when Eddard Stark had become the Hand of the King, gaped.  Only Lysinder seemed unperturbed.

“He's got the right of it,” the Hound said, releasing Sansa's arm.

She fought for words, finally deciding on, “I was in the city for the tourney as well.  It was there our paths crossed.”

Clegane's eyes narrowed, but he nodded, accepting her gross omissions.

“I believed you fallen,” she said, turning to him again.  “It is a miracle that you were spared.  Permit me to be glad of your return.”  She had not spoken it as a question, but it was.

“If it please you,” he said.

“It does.”

His eyes met hers again, making the hairs on her neck rise. She turned her attention back to the septons.  “Brothers, I implore you, sit and drink.  Supper is not far away.  The rest of the household will be joining you shortly.  I must go and find quarters for you.”

“We need nothing elaborate, my lady,” Lysinder said.

“You will be here for a time, brother, if you are to learn to build a glass garden.  You must have lodgings.”  Turning, she said, “Gendry, will you remain with the brothers to answer any questions they might have about Winterfell?”

“Of course, my lady.”  With a dark look at Clegane, he bid the brothers sit and tell him of their journey.

Sansa dropped a shallow curtsey and fled.

Lissen was waiting in her solar when she arrived.  “My lady, you look distressed!  What's happened?”

“Surprise guests,” she sighed, leaning against the door.

“The septons?” Lissen asked, raising an eyebrow.  “Not guests to fuss over, my lady, I promise you.  Holy men pay more attention to their gods than to their hosts.”

Sansa drew in a rattling breath.  “Still, I must wash and dress quickly for supper.”

“As you wish.”  Lissen scampered over to the wardrobe.  “I thought the white gown would serve tonight, my lady.”

“No!” Sansa snapped, making Lissen jump.  _White of the Kingsguard, white of a virgin._   “Forgive me, dear, not the white.  I fear I will spoil it with the stew.  What about the...the green?”

Lissen frowned.  “The green is very plain.”

"All the better to entertain septons then.”

Lissen grumbled as she unlaced Sansa's day dress and helped her into the green gown.  The only adornment was the ivy embroidery Sansa had done herself.  The vines twined around the neckline and down the sleeves.

“May be plain, my lady,” Lissen said as she finished with the laces, “but anything is beautiful with you in it.”

“Dressers are supposed to be honest, not flatter,” Sansa laughed.

Lissen _tsked,_ sitting her down on a stool to brush out Sansa’s hair.  “It's the full truth, my lady.  There was not a women in the Eyrie more lovely than you.  I'd bet there isn't one in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Lissen, _please_!”

“I'll not hear of it, my lady,” said the petite dresser, wagging the brush.  “It's been a full two years since Lord Harrold fell and not a single man has been to your bed.”

Sansa crossed her arms.  “So it comes back to that, does it?”

Lissen sighed, kneeling at Sansa's feet.  “My lady, you cannot hide loneliness from me anymore.  You aren't far from your nineteenth nameday.  Will you never consider taking a husband again?  Not even a lover?”

Sansa stood, pulling Lissen with her.  “Bless you for your sweetness, Lissen, but I am perfectly well.  Now, we must go or the food will get cold.”

“Yes, my lady.”  Resigned, she trudged from the room, leaving Sansa to follow in her disappointed wake.

The great hall rang with voices and the clatter of cups on tables as Sansa entered.  The cooks had long since served supper.  Before she could sit, though, Gendry set to bellowing, “Huzzah Lady Stark!”  The folk at the tables joined him, raising their cups and drinking to her health.

When Sansa raised her cup, the din quieted enough for her to call, “Huzzah the people of Winterfell!”

“Huzzah!” they cheered as she sat.

“Quite the display, my lady,” said Brother Lysinder, who had been seated at her left hand.

She shook her head.  “Even if I told them to stop such nonsense they would pay me no mind.”

“They love you.”

“And I them,” she said, turning her eyes to the rabble below.  She could not help smiling.  “They did not have to come here, yet they left their homes in the Vale so that I might rebuild mine.  I am in their debt.”

Lysinder patted her hand.  “You are truly a wonder, Lady Stark.”

She smiled at him, but put a spoonful of stew into her mouth to avoid responding.  Her gaze wandered over the chairs beyond Lysinder's.  Sandor Clegane was not difficult to spot.  Towering over most men when he stood, he was head and shoulders higher even when sitting.  He was talking to the Fern brothers, woodworkers both, who sat next to him.  Likely telling their bawdy jokes, Stephen and Lester erupted into laughter. The Hound, though not as boisterous, guffawed.

He was sitting with his bad side toward the high table, but as he leaned around to have his wine cup filled again, Sansa caught a glimpse of his uncorrupted skin. His dark hair was still unkempt, and curled slightly around his ears.

She blinked, recalling the passions of her girlhood.  When she had first come to the Eyrie, she had wrapped herself every night in the bloodstained cloak he had left in her chamber in King's Landing.  He had offered to take her away then, to protect her.  How she wished, after, that she had gone with him, no matter how drunk and frightening he had been.  As a girl just flowered and still half a fool, she had convinced herself that she was in love with him, that he had kissed her mouth before disappearing from the Red Keep. It had been a child's love, pure, trusting, and an illusion. As she grew, she had abandoned it, tucking the cloak away.

Harrold Harydyng, her first true husband, had taken her maidenhood and taught her pleasure.  _Though it was not always him you saw between your legs_ , she reminded herself.  Unable to stop it, her cheeks colored at the memory.  Perhaps her child's love had matured after all.

“I'm sorry, brother. What did you say?” she asked, realizing Lysinder was speaking again.

“It is quite queer, my lady, that you know our Sandor.”

She let a swallow of stew slide slowly down her throat.  “Indeed, brother.”

“When he came to us, he was gravely injured,” he said, running a hand down his beard. “By the gods' own grace did he manage to recover. We were glad to accept him into our lives. He is a good man.”

None in King’s Landing would ever have described him as “good,” no matter who they were. “The Mother forgives the sins of the Warrior,” Sansa said, almost to herself.

“Quite so, my lady!” Lysinder chortled.  “Your septa taught you well.  Any man may begin a new life among us.”

Sansa smiled, searching desperately for a different subject.  “Do any of your brothers weave?”

“Yes, my lady,” Lysinder said.  “We must make our own clothes and linens.”

“Then perhaps you might join me and a few others at our looms this evening if you are not too exhausted from your journey?”

“With pleasure!”

Their conversation turned to the art of weaving and remained safely there until the meal was finished.  Once the dishes had been cleared and most of the townsfolk had departed, Sansa stood, stretching her stiff limbs.

“Let me ask who among our brotherhood would join us at the looms, my lady,” Lysinder said, bowing

“I shall wait for you here,” she replied.  She watched as the small septon scampered down to the benches, speaking to each one of his fellows in turn.  Most shook their heads, but the willowy youth who had spoken of the mules earlier accepted.  Sandor Clegane, too, followed them as they made their way up the stairs to where Sansa stood waiting.

“Alas, it will be only us three,” Lysinder said.  "The others prefer to go with young Gendry to the baths.”

“It will be my pleasure to show you our work,” said Sansa, ducking her head.  She waited, not knowing which of them to walk with.

Clegane kneed the willowy brother in the back of his thigh, pushing him forward.  Blushing, the boy held out his scrawny arm.  “My lady?”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling and leading the way.  He told her his name as Clegane and Lysinder fell in step behind them.

“Wh-what kind of looms do you use, my lady?” the boy—whose name was Antony—asked as they made their way through the passage.

“The ones our woodworkers make us, Brother Antony.”

His face went white with confusion.  “I-I beg your pardon, my lady?”

"We work with what we are given,” she said, stifling laughter.  “The craftsmen have made three small looms for the ladies to make clothes.  I fear my work is not as useful as theirs.  Our master woodworker built a great loom for me, twice the size of the others, as a gift for my nameday a year past.  I am weaving a tapestry.”

“Tapestry-making is essential,” Lysinder said, looking affronted.  “Without them, how might we preserve our histories?  What is the subject of your work, my lady?”

“My family,” Sansa said.  “When Winterfell burned, we lost all our woven histories.  I cannot reproduce what was lost, but I've been slowly replacing them.  The one I'm making now is my second.”

“You finished one in a year?” Lysinder gasped.

Sansa smiled, saying, “ A small one.  Ah!  Here we are, brothers.”

When Sansa entered, the women greeted her, but did not bother to stop their work.  “Good evening,” she said.  “Brothers Lysinder, Antony, and Sandor will be joining us.  Please make them welcome.”

Immediately, a number of matrons swarmed around the three men, pulling them off to show them their work and peppering them with questions. Sansa looked after them for a moment, unwilling to believe that Sandor Clegane could have laid down his sword and lance for a loom.

Shaking her head, she went to her place, settling the completed section of the tapestry on her lap and looking it over.

At the top left corner were her father and mother on their wedding day.  The train of Catelyn Statk's dress swirled around to the right corner to serve as swaddling clothes for her eldest son Robb, settled in her arms.  Behind him was Eddard.  Above his shoulder was a door where the wet nurse stood with his bastard son Jon in her arms.  Beneath baby Robb was a sunlight window.  He, around thirteen, was sitting on the sill trying to look uninterested as Old Nan, ancient and toothless, told one of her stories.  Jon, his arms crossed, stood next to Robb's perch.  Bran, who sat directly in front of the storyteller, was rapt.  Arya lay next to him, surely spoiling her dress on the floor.  Sansa herself sat on a pillow with tiny Rickon in her lap.

The dark skirts of the Stark sisters trailed down to form the forest around the boys as they found a litter of direwolf pups.  That scene melted into the shadow of Queen Cersei's enormous wheelhouse as it stopped at Winterfell's gate.  A column of horses and men followed it, drawing a dark line across to the other side of the tapestry.  Beneath it was the high table in the great hall.  King Robert Baratheon, red and rotund, laughed at the center.  On his right was a taciturn Eddard, tall and slender in the Stark colors.  Catelyn had her hand against her cheek as she looked at Robb, who was holding himself up proudly.  Tyrion Lannister smiled at Bran, who was trying to pull Rickon back into his seat and keep him from feeding Shaggydog table scraps.

On the opposite side of the table, the younger royal children sat and ate with good manners.  To the left of them was Sansa, staring adoringly up at Prince Joffery, who was inspecting the knife on his plate.  Queen Cersei's chair was empty.  As it happened, so was her brother Jamie's.

Below was another line of horses and men, this time going away from Winterfell.  She had woven Lady's death into the tapestry.  Her father, with Ice, was about to strike off the direwolf's head.  Young Sansa was facing the other way, weeping.  Across the road, Arya was throwing rocks at Nymeria to make her run.

The next scene depicted Eddard being named Hand by King Robert.  Neither was smiling.  Cersei, her hand on Joffery's shoulder, glowered.  The queen's gold dress swooped down to become the armor her brother wore as he rode in the Hand's tourney.  His opponent was Loras Tyrell, beautiful in red and white.  Beneath their horses hooves was Sandor Clegane in his dog's helm meeting his brother's sword before Gregor could kill Loras, who was stricken on the ground a few paces away.

Sansa glanced over the scene she had just begun.  Joffery was handing the champion's purse to Sandor.  Princess Myrcella, who was next to her brother, wore the rose crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty.  There was a bare patch, though, where one rose was missing.  Myrcella was too happy to notice.  Down the way was young Sansa in her finest gown.  Instead of watching the prince, she was looking down at the pink rose in her hands.

“Precise work,” Brother Lysinder said, looking down at the tapestry.  “My lady, this is exquisite!  Sandor, Antony, come look at this detail.”

Sansa forced herself to take a deep breath.  No Queen of Love and Beauty had been crowned at the tourney, and Sansa certainly had not been given a flower from the crown.  The Hound had never been meant to see this rendering.  Perhaps in the future, long after she herself was dead, someone would have assumed they had loved each other.

Brother Antony was a captive of a pair of matrons and could not escape, but Sandor arrived in three long strides.

Lysinder excitedly pointed at the rose in young Sansa's hand.  “The work is perfect!  Look at the shadows here.  The way a single finger is caressing a petal.  I have never seen such detail in a tapestry.  Have you, Sandor?”

“No,” he answered, answered, humoring the old man. Leaning down to look in earnest, he said, “This is the Hand's Tourney.”

Sansa was afire with humiliation from cheeks to breasts.  “Yes.  Is it accurate...the fight?”

“Sword's a few inches short,” he rumbled.

“Come now, Sandor,” Lysinder chided, “the length of the sword is not important when looking at such a work of art.”  He sighed.  “If only I had the gift.  My skills can better be applied to the clothing.  Will you excuse me, my lady?”

“Of course, brother,” she said, managing a smile.  When he had gone, she turned back to the pedals and shuttle, hoping Clegane would go.

“Are you warm?”

She jumped, feeling his breath on the back of her neck.  “What?”

He walked around to her side, leaning on the wall.  “You're redder than the Keep in King’s Landing.. _.my lady_.  Do you need cool wine?”

She stared at him for a moment, unable to think of a reply.  The heat of her blush burned up and down her front.  Her hands were sweating.  “Wine...yes, wine would be lovely.”

Without a word or another look, he strode away and out the door.

Sansa was glad for her solitude; there was no one to see how her fingers shook.  She cursed her idiocy.  He had said nothing, but surely he knew.  The roses on Myrcella's head and in her hands were hardly the center of the scene, yet thrice-blasted Lysinder had spotted them first.

She rubbed a finger up the bridge of her nose, brows knit.  She should not have cursed the septon.  She said a quick prayer and hoped the gods would forgive her.

Sandor returned with a massive flagon and a stack of horn cups.  Brother Lysinder thanked him loudly and profusely before commandeering the wine.  Before he could alight to the women at the back of the room, Sandor grabbed his wrist.  Taking a cup from the top of the stack, he filled it and, with a dark look, released Lysinder.  He picked up a three-legged stool with his free hand and stalked off.

Lysinder watched him go, a smile on his lips.

Sandor set the stool down beside Sansa's loom.  He held the cup out to her.

She took it.  “Thank you.”

He nodded, resting his hands on his knees.

She turned to the threads, the cup on her lap between her hands.  How in the Seven Hells was she to make conversation?  Pleasantries would be of no use, she knew.  She could ask him how he came to be on the Quiet Isle, but she had already been told.  He surely did not fight anymore.  Septons, save Thoros of Myr, were noncombatants.  The night in King's Landing crossed her mind, but she pushed it away.  The distinct lack of acceptable topics turned around in her mind.

“It's not poisoned,” Sandor rumbled.

“Oh!” she cried.  _Forgive me_ was on the tip of her tongue, but she drank instead.  The wine was white, strong, and pleasantly cold.  She smiled as she lowered the cup.  “I feel much better.  I thank you.”

He sat back, leaning against the wall.  Glancing down at the tapestry, he said, “It’s…precise.”

“Except the length of your sword,” she replied, taking another sip of wine.

Sandor shrugged.  “Wouldn't matter to anyone but me anyway.”

“Perhaps I shall take it apart,” Sansa said, “and correct the mistakes.”

“More than one?” he asked, leaning in to inspect the weaving again.

Sansa's stomach turned.  She felt the blush creeping up again.  “I...well, I had forgotten that...there was no Queen of Love and Beauty crowned that day.  Perhaps I confused it with a song.”

“There was going to be,” he said.  “Tyrell had picked the flowers himself, I heard, knowing he would win.”

“Such arrogance,” Sansa said, frowning down at her wine.  “What happened to the crown?”

Another shrug.  “Maybe he gave it to Renly.”

“That would have been a sight worthy of weaving,” Sansa laughed.

Sandor traced the flowers on Myrcella's head with his thumb.  The callous rasped lightly.  “Leave it in.”

Sansa shook her head.  “It's wrong.”

“It is.”  He studied her for a moment and then rose to his feet.  “I would have crowned you, not Lannister get.”

Before she could respond, he had gone.


	2. Chapter 2

###  **II**

Sansa had not stayed long at her loom after Sandor Clegane had disappeared; claiming exhaustion, she had fled to her rooms.

She had, of course, made sure to send an able lad to lead Brother Lysinder and Brother Antony to the quarters they would share with the other septons.  They were to stay in what would eventually become the barracks.  It was unfurnished, but Gendry had seen to it that each man had a pallet, warm furs, and a chamber pot.  At least the stoves had already been completed and burned throughout the frigid nights.

 _Perhaps the brothers could help the craftsmen build beds_ , Sansa thought as she made her way up to her chambers.  She smiled to herself, making plans for the extra hands.  The smaller ones could help with the woodworking while their more learned brothers worked with Manden in the glass gardens.  Had anyone of them worked stone before?  Unlikely; they did not look as though they could even help hoist a block into place.  All except Sandor Clegane.

“Good evening, my lady,” Lissen said when Sansa arrived, interrupting her thoughts.

Sansa gave her a warm smile.  “Hello, dear.  I know it’s late, but I would like to have a bath.  Could I bother you to send for water?”

“Of course, my lady,” Lissen replied, bobbing a curtsey.  “I won’t be but a moment.”

After the maid disappeared, Sansa wandered over the carved hope chest at the foot of her bed.  Kneeling, she lifted it open.

It had once been filled with the finest dresses Winterfell’s seamstresses could stitch, though when Sansa arrived in King’s Landing, she had deemed most of them rags and demanded new, more fashionable gowns be made for her.  She had gotten her wish, though shortly after Joffrey Baratheon had ordered her father beheaded.  Her thoughts, then, turned more often to the stakes atop the walls of the Red Keep than to her wardrobe.

Months later, what little was left of her beautiful dresses were packed away in the chest as she was shipped from the capital to the Vale of Arryn.  Her lovely clothes were either repurposed by the seamstresses in the Vale to fit Alyane’s bastard status or were given to Lady Lysa to be made into dolls for Lord Robert.

When Petyr Baelish announced her impending marriage to Harrold Hardyng, new things were made, though none as fine as the dresses Queen Cersei had given her.

Her wedding gown had been elegant despite its simplicity.  Gray linen with a white muslin underskirt, it had been cut to follow the curves of her form.  The sleeves, like the direwolf cloak at her back, dragged behind her as she strode toward Harrold and the septon on her wedding day.  The neckline had dipped far too low for her taste, but Petyr had had the dress made specially and she feared to refuse him anything.  His vengeance was far craftier—and thereby more frightening—than that of any man she had met before.  Save Joffrey, perhaps.

After she had shed the gown and gone to her new husband’s bed, she had folded it neatly and laid it inside the chest.  It remained there still, five years later, even after Harrold had long been put in the frozen ground.

Sansa lifted the gown up and out, placing it on the ground next to her.  Her thoughts turned quickly away from it as she laid eyes on the tattered length of wool beneath.  It was stained with blood and blackened with smoke from the green fires that had burned in King’s Landing.  The fires had driven Sandor Clegane, then a sworn knight of the Kingsguard, from the battlefield and into Sansa’s bed.

After he had stormed out, she wrapped the white cloak around her and wept, praying for the battle to end, for the safety of her family, for home.  Since that night, she had often sought refuge in the scratchy folds.  Somehow it had given her comfort on the nights when Petyr had kissed her or the guards had tried to fondle her breasts again.  Its strange mix of smells kept the worst of Alyane’s loneliness at bay.

Sansa, Lady Hardying had spent only a few nights alone, but when Harrold was away, the cloak was her bedmate.  She had considered having it cut down for blankets for her children, but there had been none in all the years of her marriage.

Still kneeling over the chest, she reached out to touch the fabric.  As her fingertips grazed it, the door behind her swung open, startling her to her feet.

“Your bath, my lady,” Lissen said, leading a stream of women bearing water vessels.  They upended them into the copper tub near the hearth.

“Do you require something, my lady?” Lissen asked, lifting her brows and casting a glance toward the chest.  “I would be glad to find it for you.”

“No,” said Sansa.  “I was just…remembering.”

Lissen’s eyes moved to the folded wedding dress.  “Gods rest him, Lord Harrold,” she muttered halfheartedly.

Sansa ignored the girl’s tone and slipped out of her dress.  She stepped into the steaming water as Lissen sat down behind her and set to undoing her hair.

“How did you fare today?” Sansa sighed, eyes closed.  The heat of the water made her skin tingle pleasantly.

“Well, my lady, I went to help make thread after you had gone to the glass gardens.”  The girl's fingers massaged Sansa's scalp as she talked.  “Once my eyes had had enough, I set off to bring Gendry his bread and cheese...always takes something before supper.  But he wasn't there.  The forge fires burned, of course, but he wasn't wielding the hammer.”  She released Sansa's hair, running her fingers through the red-gold strands. 

Sansa dunked her head, swirling her locks.  She surfaced and asked, “Where was he then?”

“Well,” said Lissen, applying scented soap to Sansa's hair, “if he's not in the forge, means he likely smashed his thumb again and gone home to bandage it.  So, I went there, only to find it empty, too.”  She laughed.  “Not for long though.  Gendry came barreling in spouting some nonsense about a septon knight coming to the castle.  Couldn't stay, he said, so I didn't get the truth from him.  Just took the food and ran.  I saw the septons, my lady, but is there truly a holy knight among us?”

Sansa shook her head.  “No, dear.”

“How disappointing,” Lissen grumbled, finished washing.  “I had hoped someone could take over for Gendry as master-at-arms.  He can hold his own with a blade or mace, but it's not his real gift.  A knight would be just what we need.”

Sansa dunked her head again, staying under long enough to avoid having to respond.  She had not lied to Lissen; the Hound was not a knight by oath, but he had been a knight by action.  He was a formidable swordsman and just as deadly with a lance and shield.  But now a brother of the Seven.

She came up for air at last.  Lissen was ready with her robe and slippers.  Her hair dripping, she sat down on the horsehair chaise by the hearth.

“How do you find the septons, my lady?” Lissen asked, arriving with a comb.

“Perfectly cordial,” she replied as she stared into the leaping flames.  “Brother Lysinder, who is senior among them, is happy to talk until he’s hoarse, but the others seem able and ready to learn about the glass gardens.”

“If anyone can match this Lysinder’s mouth for distance, it’s Manden.”

“Indeed,” Sansa agreed, holding back a laugh.  “He does enjoy explaining _all_ the intricacies of architecture.”  When Lissen made a face, Sansa scolded her.  “Even if he does talk at length, he is a brilliant young man and he has done wonderful things with Winterfell.”

“As you say, my lady,” Lissen grumbled.  She squeezed the ends of Sansa’s hair a last time and then asked, “Is there anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Sansa replied, patting the girl’s hand.  “I will put the dress away tomorrow.”

Lissen nodded, shooting a last glare at the gown.  “If it please you.”  She went out, shutting the door.

Sansa waited, considering, but crawled into bed without the cloak.

 * * * * *

 She did not sleep well, and was relieved to see light on the horizon in the late morning.

Slithering out from under the warm furs, she padded across the room to her wardrobe.  She donned several layers of wool underclothes and chose a dark dress that would not be as visibly spoiled with wood shavings or mortar.  The boots she pulled on laced up to her thighs and would keep the snow out.  She tucked the front of her skirts into her belt, as the common women did, and tugged a fox fur hat over her ears.

She was gone by the time Lissen appeared to help her dress.

The cold was biting, as usual, and Winterfell was not yet fully awake.  In the darkest days of the winter, the sun had not risen until midday, or what would be midday in the summer.  The fires in the massive lamps that lined the castle’s walls burned constantly.  Archers armed with dragonglass knives and flaming arrows were stationed in the spaces between them should the wights attempt to breach the defenses.

Harrold and the men of the Eyrie had fought off the majority of the creatures three years before, and the local pack of direwolves had taken care of the rest in the time that followed.  Still, Sansa, as Lady of Winterfell and protector of her people, could not afford to allow the men to stand down.  Winter was not over and war still raged in the South.

Sansa listened to the creaking of the snow under her feet as she made her way across the courtyard.  A pair of bundled girls scampered into the barn to milk the cows.

The ring of hammer on steel echoed from the building to Sansa’s left.  She walked by as Gendry, shirtless, worked at his forge.  Absorbed in his work, he did not see her.  She sneaked away, nearly colliding with Brother Lysinder.

“Good morning, my lady,” he said, straightening his robes.  Ten brothers stood in a line behind him, craning their necks to see Sansa.  “You are up with the sun.”

“I am riding out with the hunt this morning,” she replied.

“My lady shoots?”

She shook her head.  “No, but I do like to join the riders from time to time.  My late husband was an avid hunter and he always insisted the ladies of his house ride with him to watch and appreciate the skills of their men.”

“A wise man, gods rest him,” Lysinder said, pulling on his beard.  “I am a wretched shot myself, but young Erik,” he pointed to a lithe youth with brown hair, “is quite a remarkable hunter.  Would you consider allowing him to join you?”

“I would happily have you ride with us, Brother Erik,” said Sansa, nodding to him.

He bowed low, giving her a smile that suggested something quite un-brotherly.

Sansa knew that the septons were not necessarily celibate, but most of them were too wrapped up with the gods to bed women.  Erik was young—around seventeen, she guessed—and comely; she could understand his desire.  Still, she gave him a matronly frown, hoping that would discourage any further advances.

“We are off to have some breakfast,” Lysinder said.  “Will my lady dine with us?”

“No,” she said, curt.  Softening her tone, she continued, “I have had my porridge.  When you get to the kitchen, ask the cook to send out something for Brother Erik, if you please.  My master of horse must find him a suitable mount.”

“It will be done.  Good day, my lady.”  With a nod, he led the column of septons away, leaving her with Erik, who was still undressing her with his eyes.  He stopped only when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

“Get to the stables,” Sandor Clegane growled.  “This is no place for loose-laced boys.”

“Aye,” Erik said, trotting off.  As cocky as he was, it seemed he understood that Sandor was not to be trifled with.

He glared after the boy.  “Lordling's brat.  Sixth son or thereabouts.”  He turned to Sansa.  “Better tell your women to warn their daughters.”

“I will,” she sighed.  “And I am significantly less glad to have him with us on the hunt.”

“He's a good shot,” Clegane replied, shrugging.  “He'll return with a stag for your table.”

“If that is all he plans on hunting, I am glad for him.  If not...”

Sandor barked a laugh.  “He'll wake up the next morning unmanned.”

Sansa smiled, looking down at his battered leather boots and woolen breeches.  His gray robes were gone.  “Are you riding with us?”

“Didn’t know there was a hunt until I heard you with the brat.”  He grinned, the ruined side of his mouth twitching.  “I told your woodworkers I would lend my hands to them.”

“They will be glad of the help,” Sansa said, hearing the dogs beginning to bark as the kennel master released them.  “If you ever wish to ride, though, you are welcome to our stables.”

He nodded, striding wordlessly away.

“Your horse, m'lady,” a stable boy said, drawing Sansa’s attention away from Clegane’s broad back.  Walking at the boy’s side was Harrold's wedding gift, a leggy mare with a milk-white coat freckled with brown.  Her snowy mane and tail were braided for the hunt.

“Hello, Jonquil,” Sansa said, taking the reins and stroking the mare's velvet nose.  Her disdain for horses and riding had been forced out of her.  Harrold’s passion for hunting and his insistence that the ladies ride as well soon had his new wife, just turned fourteen weeks before their wedding, galloping over fallen tree trunks and whooping as Jonquil's hooves soared over the fields surrounding the Eyrie.  Arya would have been quite smug if she could have seen her squeamish sister then.

Sansa had ridden with Harrold almost daily until his death during the battle for Winterfell.  He had never gotten to see the ruin he gave his life to win back for her.

Taking hold of the pommel and cantle of the saddle, Sansa pulled herself up.  Jonquil stood stock still, though Sansa could feel her excitement.  She was a trained hunting horse, agile and fast.  Sasna thanked the boy and sent him back into the warm stables.

“Good morning, my lady!” Boren the kennel master called, trotting up on his black gelding.  “Fine weather.  I expect to bring enough for a feast.”

“One in honor of the visiting _ascetic_ septons?” she asked, wry.

“Just so, my lady,” Boren chuckled.  “Ah, here comes Brother Erik.”

He had exchanged his robes for leather boots, breeches, shirt, vest, and cloak.  He looked far more at home with a bow and quiver at his back than in a sept.  He rode one of the mares Harrold had insisted on buying—at an exorbitant price—for breeding stock.  Removing his hat, he acknowledged Sansa.

“Shall we ride, my lady?” Boren asked.

She smiled in response.  Boren blew the horn at his waist and led the charge of six horsemen and four dogs.

 * * * * *

Erik was as good of a shot as Sandor had said.  Within the first hour, six birds hung from his saddle.  In the next they were followed by a fox and the promised stag.

While the hunters had taken the clearest route, Sansa had deliberately sent Jonquil over piles of stone, trunks, and the frozen stream.  Her face was red with cold, but she laughed as she halted to allow Boren to tie up the stag.

“Quite good, boy,” he said, lifting the carcass up onto the mount of one of the less skillful hunters.

“Thank you,” Erik replied, flashing a smile at Sansa.  She did her best not to glare at him.  “Where shall we ride next?”

"That copse ahead,” said Boren, pointing.  “Should be some snow hare around those shrubs.  A good stew would be just—”

“Rider approaching!”                                                                   

Sansa turned to see a horseman cantering toward them.  Sandor Clegane, astride one of the war horses her uncle had sent her with, hailed them.  “I've come for Lady Sansa,” he rasped.

She urged Jonquil forward.  “Am I needed at the keep?”

He nodded.

“I shall ride back with Sandor, then,” she said to the others.  “Enjoy the rest of the hunt.”

A chorus of “Yes, my lady” followed her as she trotted her mare up next to Clegane's deep bay stallion.  He tapped the horse's flanks with his heels; it sprang into a canter.  Sansa gave Jonquil her head and they were off.

Jonquil, fresh and ready to tease the stallion, bucked and pushed herself into a gallop. Sansa moved to slow her, but Sandor spurred the stallion up the meet them. They tore across the field, the snow behind them marked with deep hoof prints.

As Winterfell came into sight, Clegane slowed his mount to a walk.

“At that pace, I thought my presence was urgently needed,” Sansa said, still giddy from the ride.

Clegane shrugged.  “Everyone was asking for you.”

“Well, who is it that needs me right now?”

He looked down at her, his eyes burning, his face cool.  The good side of his mouth lifted.  “I'm sure someone does.”

Sansa’s breath came up short, setting her coughing.  Clegane gave her stout pats on the back until she had recovered.  “No one asked for me?”

Sandor’s face hardened.  “I told you, everyone has asked for you at least once.”

"No one sent you?" she said, frowning up at him.

He shook his head.

“Then why did you come?”

“I had to see it,” he said. “I didn’t believe them.”

“What?”

“That a little bird had the stomach to ride in a hunt.”

Sansa’s mouth popped open at the sound the name she had not been called in many years, but she could think of nothing to say, so she simply snapped it closed again.  She looked down, watching Jonquil's shoulders move forward and back.

They rode in silence for a time, clouds of condensing breath haloing their horses’ heads.

“My uncle sent that stallion and the three others with us when we left the Vale,” Sansa said.  “I did not think they would ever see use.”

“They're fine animals,” Sandor replied.  “No one here's worthy of them, your warrior smith included.”

Sansa shrugged.  “Gendry does what he can with the guard, but he is a much better smith than solider.”  She looked up at the gray sky.  “Winterfell is not the residence of most knights' choice.”

“I would bet on that,” Clegane laughed.  “It's cold enough to freeze a man's balls right off.”

“You'll be glad to return south with your brothers, then?” Sansa asked, choosing to ignore his crudeness.  She would once have taken offense, but now it mattered little.

He grunted.  “I never took their oath.  They kept me around as a sword, no matter how much peace they preached.”

"Not a knight, not a septon,” Sansa mused.  “Is there any pursuit to please you?”

He was quiet for a moment, and then said, “I would have said drink and women, but I haven't had either in years.”

“There are...willing maids here, I'm sure.”

He burst out laughing.  “The little bird singing to me of ‘willing’ girls.  You certainly have changed your tune.”

“I was married,” she snapped.  “I am well aware of a man's needs.”

He reined his horse to a halt.  “And what of a maid's?  Unless you keep whores, little bird, your sweet girls would not suffer to be bedded without being wedded.”

“Would a wife be so terrible?” asked Sansa.  “Someone to warm your meals as well as your bed.  Perhaps sons or daughters—”

“What women will take _this_?” he growled, pointing to his face.

“A man’s face is not his only defining feature,” Sansa snarled.  “You, of all men, should comprehend that!”  She laid her heels into Jonquil's side and charged off.

Clegane followed her, but when they arrived in the courtyard, he dismounted and headed for the barn without a word.  Sansa, handing Jonquil’s reins to a boy, stormed off in the opposite direction to find one of the many people who had been requesting her presence.


	3. Chapter 3

###  **III**

“The septons are making remarkable progress,” Manden said as he and Sansa ambled through the castle yard.  “The design for their glass gardens is much simpler than what we have here, of course, but Brother Lysdiner was extremely pleased with my drawings of a circular central building with seven deep alcoves along the outer rim.  They will have separate, though smaller, beds.”

“It will certainly be a wonderful sight,” Sansa said, nodding along with the architect.  “Perhaps Elbert could suggest crops that would do justice to the god or goddess in whose alcove they are growing.”  The head gardener of Winterfell was a rotund man with a pockmarked cheeks and fat fingers, but he had a gift with plants.  Sansa smiled as she thought of him humming to himself as he plucked dead leaves away from a young shoot, the popping of his knees echoing through the glass gardens as he knelt to examine the soil.

“A splendid idea, my lady,” Manden said.  “Would that I could have thought of it myself.  Perhaps you would like to propose it to Brother Lysinder yourself.  Tonight at supper?”

Sansa had to force herself not to roll her eyes at Manden’s toadying.  “I trust that you will relate it to him.”

Despite being an honored guest at Winterfell, Brother Lysdiner had, after the first night, insisted on sitting with the commons as opposed to at Sansa’s left hand.  He still visited with her every evening after supper, though, as they worked together at the looms.  He described in great detail the things he and his brothers had learned about the construction of glass gardens or conversations he had had with the people of the castle.

Sansa was always glad to listen to him.  He often artfully wove lessons of the Seven into stories of the everyday goings on at Winterfell, allusions to parables Sansa had not heard since Septa Mordane had been killed in King’s Landing.

Winterfell's people seemed to like the old man and his fellows as well.  Though eight of the eleven spent most of their days with Manden, the three others had found work for themselves among the community.  Brother Antony worked all day among the weavers making clothing and linens.  He worked magic with a shuttle and pedals; his efforts had already almost doubled the amount of textiles the weavers made.

Young Brother Erik had taken to helping the household guard improve their skill in archery.  The boys and men of the guard learned quickly to respect his excellent aim and felicitous advice.  He also lent himself to the kennel master and the falconers.  The game he brought in added much to meals in the castle. The maids and the market girls had embraced him as well.  Despite his holy vows, he had a great appetite for women.

“We cannot expect young men to forgo the pleasures their bodies seem to demand,” Brother Lysinder had said when Sansa had mentioned Erik's amorous nature.  “The gods made our youths hungry for each other's company.  If such passions are not allowed to run their course, it can lead to perversions.  Brother Erik has been instructed in the ways preventing conception, and should a child be made, he will be obligated to weave clothes for it and to offer his services to a lord or lady in exchange for five silver florins that he will then take to the child and its mother each year.”

Sansa could be satisfied with that, but it seemed that despite Bother Erik's frequent trysts, he could not desist casting glances toward her.  He was comely to be sure, and skilled with a bow, but still too much a boy for her to tolerate. She was less concerned about his gazes than the jealous glares turned on her by the castle maids as they refilled wine cups or served the next course at supper.  Perhaps she would make a spectacle of refusing Erik so that there would not be undue assumptions or unrest among Winterfell’s girls.

Sandor had been right to warn her about him.

In the fortnight that had passed since their ride back to the castle, she had not said a word to Sandor.  He had, of course, been right that day: many of the craftsmen and women who worked within the castle had wished to speak to her about one thing or another.  “Are the carvings on these door frames what you wanted, m’lady?”  “Lady Sansa, should the sheets for the bedrooms be embroidered with ivy or with roses?”  “We haven’t enough makings to finish the pipes for the walls in the east wing, m’lady.  Can we spare coin enough for more?”  “That woman from Molestown, my lady, is seeking to open a brothel in town.  It wouldn’t do no harm to have a few girls ‘round for the men who can’t afford a bride price.”   And so on.

Sansa had dealt with as many of them as she could before supper, not seeing Sandor again until she was at table.  He was perched on a bench amongst a number of guardsmen—mostly third or fourth sons who had had no better prospects among their farming families in the Eyrie—but he didn’t once look up toward the dais.

Over the next few days, Sansa would sometimes pass by him as he did odd jobs around the keep or as he worked one of the four destriers that Harrold had selected to breed for Winterfell’s knights.  She stopped to watch him once as he put the piebald mare through her paces.

Harrold had always scolded Sansa for relying too much on the reins to guide her mount.  “If you tug too much on their mouths,” he said, “they will first get sore and then hard and unresponsive.  A horse with a hard mouth won’t perform, nor will he respect you.  Such a horse will always betray you.”  He told her that war horses and hunters were worthless to their riders if they were mistreated.

“‘You want good men at your side when you ride into battle,’” Sansa found herself repeating.  “‘You want a better horse between your legs.’”

Harrold had forced her to ride in a circle around him with her hands touching her shoulders, using only her legs to guide Jonquil.  She had been sore for days afterward, but as she grew stronger, she became more confident in the saddle.  Jonquil behaved better and responded more willingly to her commands when she used both her legs and her reins.  Sansa was no longer terrified that she would tumble off, even as Jonquil galloped through the forest, over fallen trees and through streams.

As she watched Sandor work with the mare, she saw the subtle flexing of his thighs and calves.  The hand that held the reins never moved.  The fingers tightened occasionally, but he never pulled back, even to slow the mare from a full gallop to a steady trot.  He would need his hands free if he were to ride in a joust or wield a sword in battle.

His face was set as he rode, shining just slightly with sweat.  The mare’s shoulders were soaked.  With no one to ride her or her fellows, they had been allowed to grow fat and lazy in their stalls, pulling at nets of hay.  Sandor had taken to riding each one daily, though, working the fat from their ribs and building up their strength.

Sansa remembered how well he had sat his huge, black stallion Stranger in the Hand’s Tourney.  Even when he took a blow from Ser Jamie Lannister’s lance, he stayed in the saddle.  In the next tilt, it was Ser Jamie who was unhorsed.

Sandor and the mare came toward the fence at a canter.  As they approached, Sansa caught his eye.  She watched as he slowed to a trot and then a walk.  He drew the mare to a halt near where Sansa stood, but said nothing.  She smiled, inclined her head, and turned away.  A few moments later, she could hear the even four beats of a gallop.

“I will suggest that very thing when I see Brother Lysdiner shortly,” Manden said, drawing Sansa’s attention back to the present.  “I have only one problem, my lady, that I hope you can see resolved.”

“If it is in my power,” she replied, “it will be done.”

Manden nodded, flashing a handsome smile.  “Brother Donal and Brother Felden have taken very well to glass making.  Teryn watches them closely, of course, and makes them recast any pane that has too many flaws.  They have already produced significantly more than I anticipated.  They will be finished long before Gendry has completed the frame for the garden.  If the glass is finished, but the frame is not, the septons will be forced to remain here…preventing them from returning to the Quiet Isle to begin building.  That is more time that their brethren will be without fresh food.”

Sansa’s brows knit.  “That is a request I am not sure I will be able to grant, Manden.  Gendry is our only smith skilled enough to make the frame.  His apprentices are not ready.  And he has other duties as well.”

“Training the guard,” Manden scoffed.  “Can’t you get that walking tower Clegane to take over for him?  Brother Normyn told me he used to be in the Kingsguard!  I don’t believe it, but he has the look of a soldier, maybe even a hedge knight—”

“He _was_ a member of the Kingsguard,” Sansa snapped, pulling her arm from its perch on Manden’s forearm, “and champion of the tourney King Robert Baratheon held in honor of my father’s appointment as Hand.”

Manden’s brows rose. Whether in surprise over Sandor’s prowess or Sansa’s quick jump to his defense, she could not be sure.

“Then he is far more skilled than Gendry.  Why should he not be made Knight Master until the septons depart?”

 _Because that is a knight’s title and he is not a knight, as he so often reminded me._   “I will consider it,” Sansa sighed.

Manden took her gloved hand and drew it to his lips.  “I find myself again in your debt, Lady Sansa.”

“You owe me nothing,” she snapped, extracting her hand.  Softening her tone slightly, she continued: “You have done so much for Winterfell.  And now you are only concerned for the welfare of the Brothers of the Quiet Isle, and that is very admirable.”  She doubted that was what was driving him, but she made no mention of it.  “If that is all, Manden, I will beg your leave.  I must attend to the stonemasons.”

The architect bowed from the waist.  “If it please you, my lady.  Thank you for walking with me.  Your radiance always serves to brighten the darkest winter day.”

Sansa watched his beautiful fur-lined cloak—a gift from Harrold—drag across the snow as he trudged away.  His suggestion was a good one, of course.  She had already been considering making an offer to Sandor, but she held hopes of seeing him stay and such a request would require that he part ways with the septons. Despite his sometimes harsh tone toward Brother Lydsinder, he never disobeyed him. And in his eyes Sansa had seen respect.

“I never took their oath,” he had said to her.  He was not a sworn brother of the Seven, only a novice who could swing a sword.  As master-at-arms he would be able to swing it more often and Sansa’s guard would be better trained for it.

She started toward the First Keep, shaking her head.  It was not a decision she could yet make.

The stonemasons had been hard at work reconstructing the squat tower that was the first piece of Winterfell to be erected.  Manden had modified it slightly, but only to make it easier to run heating pipes through its walls.  It had burned with the rest of the castle, but had been in disrepair long before.  Once it was completed, Sansa intended to use it to house the knights she hoped would come to swear their swords to House Stark.  _If they ever dare to venture North_.  _Cravens, the lot of those Southren knights.  Gallant and brave in the summer, but weak and frightened when the cold comes._

As she neared the half-built tower, Sansa heard: “All right, boys…now pull!”  As she rounded the corner of the Great Keep, she saw a crew of men, most in only their woolen undershirts, pulling on a rope that fed through a pulley at the top of a wooden scaffold.  Two men stood atop the uncompleted wall to help position the large stone the team was lifting into place.

Sansa hurried over to where Jonas Cleet, the master stonemason, was shouting directions.  “Easy, boys, only a few more feet to go.  Oh!  Afternoon, m’lady.”  He bowed slightly and then turned his eyes back up to the Keep.  “Lookin’ fine, isn’t she?  You should see them new faces the old gargoyles have got.  Enough to make a boy piss hisself.”

“I expected no less,” Sansa laughed.

“Set her down now!” Jonas bellowed.  The men with the rope slowly began to release it, lowering the stone into place.  When it was settled firmly, the men on the wall waved.  “Well done,” said Jonas.  “Have some wine, lads.”

He went over to the cask that sat nearby, but Sansa stopped him.  “A man who has worked as hard as you should not have to pour his own wine.”  She held a horn cup beneath the tap and turned the wooden screw.  Chilled red poured out.

“My thanks, m’lady,” Jonas said as he took the cup from her.

The five men who had been on the rope made their way over, though only four accepted a cup.

“Water will serve,” said Sandor Clegane, pulling the stopper from a skin.

“It hasn’t frozen?” Sansa asked, surprised.  Any she took with her when she rode would be nothing but ice after only a few minutes.

Clegane chuckled.  “Not when I keep it around my neck.”  He took a deep drink and slid the skin back beneath his shirt.  “Work like this will keep even the Northern cold from a man.”

“As will a ready wench,” Jonas amended, “but she won’t stay around half as long as this tower.”

The four workers laughed.  The good side of Sandor's mouth turned up.

“You've done your piece for the day,” said Jonas, clapping one of the workers on the shoulder.  “There's still a bit of sun left, but my old bones have had enough.”

“What work did you do, Cleet?”

He took a deep breath and hollered, “Yellin' is hard work!”  He lowered his voice.  “Begging your pardon, Lady Sansa.”

She smiled.  “Will we have the pleasure of hearing you sing at table tonight, Jonas?”

His cheeks turned pink.  “If it please you, m'lady.”

“It does.”  And she meant it.  Winterfell had no minstrels, but those who could play or sing a little often did so after the evening meal.  They gathered around the fire pit at the center of the great hall, their voices carrying cheerily and hauntingly around those who chose to stay and listen before they bedded down for the night.

Jonas's husky bass was powerful, but he also sang beautiful harmonies that broke Sansa's heart.

“I'd best go an' beg Ellanora to play for me,” he said, grinning.  “Begging your pardon, m'lady.”

“Of course, though I do hope she'll agree.  Your 'Maid of Market Fair' is my favorite.”

“Oh certainly, m'lady, certainly!” he said as he hurried off.

“Does every man in the this whole damn keep fall over himself the minute you turn your eyes on him?” Sandor said, his arms crossed over his chest.  “Why do I even ask?  They did when you were just a girl.  Now...”  He trailed off, shaking his head.

Sansa looked down, unsure of what to say.  If she thanked him, he would snarl at her.  If she tried to deny it, he would name her for a liar.

“The love of these people is what has built this castle,” she said, suddenly angry.  “If they did not care for me, nor I for them, Winterfell would still be charred rubble.  If you believe me manipulative, that is your business, but I say nothing I don't mean.”

Sandor slowly let his arms fall to his sides, a motion that emphasized his impressive stature.  Sansa continued to glare, unswayed.

He looked her over in silence for a moment, and then said, “Even fury becomes you, little bird.”

She balked, surprised.

"Your people love you, yes,” he continued, “but I didn't say they weren't right to.  You defend them as fiercely as any she-wolf does her pups.”  The corner of his mouth twitched.  “Never thought when you were spouting those damn courtesies your septa taught you that you'd show your teeth.  A wolf needs sharp teeth.”

“Especially when she is without her pack,” Sansa laughed humorlessly.  Glancing toward the Great Keep, she said, “This place was once so full of families...happiness.  But there are so few here now...like the ghosts our forebears left behind to mourn them.”

“Two babes were born in town today,” Sandor said from behind her.  “Girls, both.  In three days' time the thatcher's daughter will wed one of the guardsmen.  Soon you'll have your families.”

The children of the common people, though she cared deeply for them, were not her sister, her brothers, her parents.  She had only their images, frozen in stone, to look upon.  Yet, life was slowly returning to Winterfell, even if it was a gray, snowy shade of what it had once been.

Sansa found her the corners of her mouth turning up despite the stinging in her eyes.  “I had forgotten about the wedding.  I must find a suitable gift.”  She turned back to Sandor.  “Your words have brought me comfort.  Thank you.”

He nodded.

“Lady Sansa!” cried a small boy in soot-covered clothes as he ran through the snow toward her.  The holes his feet left in it were black.  “Lady Sansa!”

“Master Adryen,” she said in greeting when he arrived at her side.  “What brings you from the forge?”

“My master hoped he might gain an audience with you, m'lady,” said the boy as he caught his breath.  “Whenever it might be possible.”

She sighed inwardly, but smiled down at Adryen.  “Very well.  Run ahead and tell him that I will arrive shortly.”

He beamed.  “Thank you, m'lady.”

“Sometimes I miss the days when my mother managed the household,” she grumbled, glancing over at Sandor.

He wasn't looking at her, though.  His face was turned toward the training yard, where the guardsmen were just beginning their sword drills.  “Flit away then, little bird.”  Unable to resist the gleaming of naked steel and the ringing of blade upon blade, he strode off.


	4. Chapter 4

###  **IV**

She could almost hear her septa scolding her: “Sansa!  You’ll ruin your fine eyes working in such dark.  Do you not remember the story of the maid of Blackwater Rush?  She was betrothed to a lord whose lands were far from her home, but she had fallen in love with a tanner’s son in the village.  So, each night before she went away, she crept out of her bed and went to her loom to weave fine clothes for her lover so that he might have something to remember her by.

“So as not to be discovered by _her_ septa, she lit only a single candle.  It was hardly light enough to see by, and by the next fortnight her eyes were so strained that her sight failed her.  She was never able to deliver the clothes to her lover because she could not find her way by herself.  So, the lovely doublets and embroidered shirts were given instead to her new husband.”

“That’s a stupid story,” Sansa said aloud, echoing her childhood reply.  “No one can go blind in a fortnight.”  Still, she set down the shuttle and stood.  A few of her joints popped as she stretched.

The weaving room was empty and had been for hours.  The fire in the hearth was still crackling pleasantly, but the candles—many more than one—were almost burned down to the iron plates they stood on.  Sansa cursed herself.  There was only one candle maker in the village and while he would be glad for her coin, he likely had little time to make more of the thin tapers she favored.  They would require him to strain and process the fat that would otherwise go into the barrel-shaped candles the commons used.  They were half the price, but smelled awful and put off twice the smoke.  Having fine candles was one of the few aspects of court life Sansa could not bring herself to relinquish.

She glanced over the tapestry.  She was nearly finished with scene of the Hand’s Tourney.  She only had another hour’s work to do, two at the most.  With a sigh, she tossed another log on the fire, said a prayer for the candle maker, and sat down at the loom again.

The rest of the scene had taken over a month, though she had been working on it each night since the septons had arrived at Winterfell.  Now the elegantly clothed figures on the dais were complete and Ser Loras Tyrell was standing beside Sandor Clegane as he accepted the winner’s purse from Joffrey.  Loras was grinning and waving to the commons.  Sandor’s face was stony, his snarling dog’s head helm under his right arm.  The only thing left to finish was the grass beneath their boots.

Sansa glanced up at the sword that hung from Sandor's back and smiled.  Three days before she had been walking past the yard when she had heard raised voices.

 " _Oh is_ that's _how it’s done?!” hollered a voice Sansa immediately recognized as Gendry’s.  “That’s bloody fine and all, but it seems we’ve been making without your bloody technique!”_

_“If you’re planning to get killed by the first blow from a wight’s sword,” came the growled reply, “it will serve.”_

_Sansa’s brows knit.  Lifting her skirts above her knees, she hurried through the snow at the back of the forge and into the yard.  Surrounded by the common men who served on the castle guard was Gendry.  The blunted tourney sword he was holding was pointed at Sandor Clegane’s chest._

_“Well if you can do better,” Gendry snapped, throwing the sword into the dirty, trodden snow at his feet, “you can bloody teach them.  I have Manden’s thrice-blasted frame to make anyway.”_

_Sansa cringed.  Ever since the septons had arrived, the architect had been bothering Gendry to make lengths of frame for them.  Gendry had never been too pleased with Manden’s snobbishness in the first place—he was the son of lesser lord, something of which he was quick to remind anyone who spoke to him in a way he did not like—but of late he had been troublesome enough that Gendry spoke Sansa about it._

_“I haven’t got a gaggle of apprentices nipping at my heels, my lady,” he had told her.  “There’s only so much steel I can work.  There are always blades to be repaired for the guard, door fastenings to be made…”  He shook his head.  “My two boys are good enough for making kettles and kitchen knives, but I can’t trust them with the big things yet.  Another year maybe…”_

_She had laid her hand on his arm and told him that he should take care of things as he pleased.  She would speak to Manden.  The septonscould always stay on longer if more time was needed to make the frame._

_Manden had reluctantly agreed not to visit the forge again for a while, but only because “My dearest lady bids me.”  Sansa had not waited for him to rise from his deep bow to leave._

_Sandor watched Gendry’s back for a moment and then bent down slowly, favoring what Sansa assumed to be an old wound, and picked up the sword.  He held it out, hilt first, to the man to his right._

_“Take this and oil it,” he said, loud enough to be heard by all.  “Whether it’s a tourney blade or the finest Valyrian steel, you treat it with respect.  Any sword can kill.”_

_The pockmarked face of the young man was bright with cold, but in his muddy brown eyes was the gleam of awe.  He nodded curtly and hurried off._

_“The rest of you,” Sandor continued, “forget what the smith taught you.  I’ll show you how properly hold a sword.”_

_He began to turn toward the place where Sansa was standing.  She ducked back behind the forge before he spotted her.  Leaning against the frozen stones, she took a deep breath and tried to stop grinning._

The next morning Sansa had woken later than she usually did.  There was already a sliver of light on the horizon and she could hear the ring of steel.  She opened the shutter of her window and saw that the fires of the forge were glowing red hot, as they always did when Gendry was at work.  But, the sound came  from the yard, where ten men were drilling.  A few of the townspeople had stopped to watch.  Sandor walked among the men, calling out instructions.

“He has told me,” Brother Lysinder had told her in the weaving room earlier that evening, “that he will not neglect his work with the horses, even though he has adopted this new duty.”  The old man smiled beneath his beard.  “The stable master came to see me specifically to request that Sandor continue to ride them, though not the roan mare.”

“Why not her?” Sansa had asked.

“Why, she’s pregnant by the stallion.  And what a lovely foal it will be!”

Sansa had demurely agreed, though her heart was soaring.  At long last Harrold’s stock was seeing use.

 _Though there are no knights to ride them_ , she thought as she worked the shuttle and the pedals of the loom.  Perhaps she could convince the stable master to sell them in the South, or up to the men of Wall.  _No, not the Wall.  These are destriers were meant to carry men in full plate, not quiet garrons with sure feet._   South it would have to be.

Sansa looked down at her weaving and realized she had hardly done any work at all.  “Imagine what Septa Mordane would have said,” she muttered to herself, remembering how Arya had always been scolded for daydreaming instead of actually working on her embroidery.  As soon as she was caught at it, though, she would just throw it to the floor and scamper out.

Rising, Sansa said, “Perhaps a walk, then.”

She blew out the stubs of the candles, saving one to carry, and made her way into the passage.  The flame hardly flickered as she stood in the darkness.  Unlike the castles of the South, there were no drafts in Winterfell.  Manden’s designs had followed those of Brandon the Builder almost exactly.  Though most of the manuscripts in the library tower had burned, those in the cellar, forgotten by generations of maesters, had survived.  Among them were plans, written on crumbling hides.  What Manden had not been able to read, he redesigned, but in matters of construction and materials, he had deferred to Brandon.

Sansa was greeted with an eerie silence as walked past the kitchens, which were usually alive with the clank of pots at all hours.  While she often found the chatter of the kitchen girls pleasant to hear, once, perhaps a week past, she had been walking by on her way to the stables to brush Jonquil when she heard a pair of them of giggling as they kneaded bread.

  _“You’re wicked, Serah!” said one, a willowy girl with freckles and a thin, hawkish nose that ended too abruptly.  “He’s a brother of the Seven!”_

_“He’s not,” replied the other.  She was a little older, perhaps sixteen, but her figure was full and womanly.  Her bodice was laced more tightly near the top to push her breasts up.  Sansa had learned just such a trick from daughters of King’s Landing.  At twelve, she had been quite scandalized by the notion._

_“I heard from Deryn…oh, you know him!  The cobbler’s apprentice.  Though I’ve been be told he’s no good at it.  I wouldn't be surprised knowing the way he flops about like a fish atop you when you’re abed.”  She laughed.  Her friend gasped.  “Well, he told me that_ he _never took oath of brotherhood.  He just lives in the monastery.”_

_“Even if he’s not a brother,” said the willowy girl, “he’s, well—”_

_“The face is terrible, to be sure,” said buxom Serah, “but all men are handsome in the dark.”_

_The willowy girl looked duly affronted, but then said, “And he_ is _tall.  Imagine his cock.”_

Sansa had hurried away.  She had heard servants compare stories of men they had bedded for years.  They bickered over the merits of their lover's cocks, feet, hands, tongues, and more.  Yet, she had found herself shaking with anger at their words about Sandor.   _They know nothing of him!_ she had thought to herself.  But as she walked again past where she had seen them, she could not help but think, _What couple knows everything about one another before they tumbled into bed?_

Her thoughts trailed off as she noticed that one of the servants' doors to the great hall was open.  It led onto the dais.  They were used during meals so that food could be served at table almost directly from the kitchen.  There was a shock of light on the passage floor, as the fire at the center of the hall never stopped burning.  Even at first light, a few flames still continued to lick up from the coals of the massive logs that were heaped on each day.

Sansa strode over and looked inside.  The flames were still raging, as if they had been freshly fueled.  The ring of chairs and stools around the sunken fire pit was empty, though a flagon and a cup had been abandoned on one.

Deciding to go collect them, Sansa walked across the dais and down the steps.  The doeskin slippers she had worn to supper made no sound on the ancient stone floor as she approached the high-backed chair that Harrold had brought with him from the Eyrie.  It was far too grand for her, so she had simply had it placed where it would be used by others.

Quite suddenly an arm snaked into view and grabbed the handle of the flagon, startling Sansa enough to make her cry out.

The features of the figure that rose from the chair were cast in shadow by the blazing fire behind it, but its stature was unmistakable.  Sansa could imagine the expression on Sandor Clegane’s face as he regarded her: curious, brows lifted, a mocking smile touching the good side of his mouth.

“You frightened me,” she said, raising a hand to her breast.  Her heart was beating quite steadily beneath it.  “I was just coming for the cup, the flagon…take them to kitchens.  I didn’t see you there.”

He took a step forward, his expression still obscured.  “I’ll take them when I’m finished.”

Sansa nodded.  “All right.”  She considered turning away, but did not.

“Will you have a cup a wine?” Sandor said after a moment.  “It’s watered.”

Though her feet felt leaden, Sansa managed to make her way over to the fireside.  “Perhaps it will help me sleep.”

Sandor was facing her, the unburned side of his face to the fire, the other still shadowy.  He picked up the flagon and filled the horn cup with wine the color of dried blood.  As Sansa took it, her fingers brushed against his.  Grasping the cup with both hands, she sank into a roughhewn chair.

“You don’t want to sit here?” Sandor asked, inclining his head toward the high-backed chair.

Sansa shook her head.

With a shrug, Sandor lowered himself into it, his motion a little slower that it had been five years before.  He leaned back and took a drink from the flagon.  “Damned tasteless,” he grumbled.  “But it’ll let you sleep without the headache in the morning.”

Sansa took a long gulp from her cup.

“Now that’s a thing I thought I'd never I see,” Sandor laughed.  “The little bird drinking like an old soldier about to go to bed with a country virgin.”

“Is that how this is described?” she replied, humorlessly.  “I had always used ‘thirsty.’”  She didn’t bother to turn to see his reaction, but drained her cup.  When she looked back down, he was holding the flagon out, ready to pour.

Sansa found herself laughing.  “Thank you,” she said when her cup was full again.  “I should apologize for my rudeness.”

“Don’t bother,” Sandor said, settling back into his chair again.  He held the flagon as if it were a mug.  Somehow it didn’t look out of place.  “I’m not sure if it was that husband of yours or Littlefinger that broke you of your courtesies, but I’ll drink to them.”

“It was Petyr,” said Sansa, looking into the flames.  “Lord Baelish.  ‘Life here is not a song,’ he said.  ‘Let’s not talk like it is.’”

Sandor barked a laugh.

“I suppose,” Sansa continued, “I finally started to understand that courtesy is only the pretty face nobles wear to disguise ourselves from the commons, even though we are no better than the thieves and the rapers, the whores and the stable boys.  There is so little goodness in this world, and so much petty selfishness.”  She fell silent, but after a moment she felt Sandor’s eyes on her.  She turned and met them, unblinking.

He was surprised; she could see it in the subtle tensing of his body.  As a girl she had never been able to look at him.  Though she had tried to catch his gaze many times at Winterfell, he always looked away, turning back to his guardsmen or his meal.  Now he seemed to freeze, the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed the only movement.

Sansa’s fingers itched to reach out to him, to make him answer the questions she could not bring herself to ask. _Why have you come here, a spectre from days long dead? Divested of white cloak, yellow and black banner, sword, and drink, who are you? Not a septon, not a knight, not a common man or a lordling’s son. What do you want?_

“Everyone wants something, Alayne,” Petyr had once told her. “And when you know what a man wants you know who he is, and how to move him.”

She had known well the man Clegane had been. The Hound, drunk and never without the embers of hate and fury in his eyes, was a man she could have moved as a piece on a board. But Sandor was someone else entirely. She almost feared pushing him, for she knew not how to control the result.

_What do you want, Sandor Clegane? And what do you want of me?_

Then, he slowly reached across the distance between them.  His fingers brushed Sansa’s cheek.  Her breath caught and her lids dropped closed.  The touch was immediately withdrawn.  She opened her eyes, but the protest stuck in her throat.  Sandor was staring into the fire again, his fingers curled around the horse heads at the ends of the chair’s arms.

“I hear the roan mare is pregnant,” she said, quelling her thoughts. “Did you decide to breed her?”

“Seemed a waste not to,” he replied.

“Perhaps once the foal’s trained we could sell it South.”

“Not this one.”

“Well, then you shall have it…as a gift of thanks…for all you’ve done for Winterfell.”  A moment after she said it, Sansa realized the septons would likely be gone long before the foal dropped.

Sandor shrugged.  “Teaching a few farmers to swing swords isn’t much of anything.  At least they’ll be able to keep the wights off the walls for a few days.  Not much more, though.”

“That is all we can ask of them,” said Sansa. “It is their sons who will grow to be the warriors.”

“Warriors,” Sandor scoffed. “There’s naught to that life but blood, pain, and boredom between fights. Let the sons be, little bird.”

“You know I cannot,” she said, swilling the wine around her cup. “Winterfell is the seat of the North. I, and the sons of this realm, are bound by honor to defend it.”

“Honor is no more than gold-plated horseshit,” Sandor spat.

“The false honor of nobles and knights, yes,” said Sansa. “But it is my duty to care for my people, even if it means sending some to their deaths to preserve the others, and I am _honored_ to do it!” She shot to her feet, meaning to storm off, but her head swam with the effects of the wine. She latched onto the back of Sandor’s chair to steady herself.

He rose and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Not too quickly. There wasn't _so_ much water in the wine.”

Sansa gave in to the gentle pressure and sank into the rough-hewn chair again. She tried to laugh, but no sound would come out. Instead, she remained silent as she pushed a strand of hair back from her face.

Sandor’s eyes followed the motion, but then he stepped back and turned toward the fire again.

“You dismiss honor,” said Sansa after a time, “but act with it.”

"Ha!" Sandor guffawed.

"I have seen that way you look to Brother Lysinder," Sansa said. "You have great respect for him."

"Respect is not honor."

"Respect is a way of honoring the man who saved your life."

He turned to glare at her. "What do you know of that?"

"Only that you came to the Quiet Isle with a terrible wound," she said. "It must have been on your leg. You favor it now. And that Lysdiner took you in, healed you, and gave you a new life."

"That's a pretty story," he growled. "The truth is messier."

"As it always is," said Sansa. She waited expectantly for him to continue.

"It was five years past," he said, looking to the flames. "Not but a few weeks after the Blackwater. Some bastard sons and their lady managed to take me captive. I was too drunk to see. They robbed me blind. Took the coin I won at your daddy's tourney, my sword, armor, horse.  They sentenced me to death after your she-wolf of a sister told them of how I cut down that butcher's boy of hers. Never got a chance to kill me, though. I took the little wolf and ran."

Sansa grabbed his arm. "Arya lives?"

"Can't say now," Sandor replied. "Last I saw of her she was riding away on the nag we had lifted from two of my brother's men, leaving me to die under a tree in a damned storm."

"Arya's loyalty was always to herself first."

"Smart girl, that one."

Sending up a prayer to whatever gods were listening, Sansa begged them to keep Arya safe wherever in the world she may be.

“Save your prayers, little bird,” said Sandor. “She swore she'd live to spit on my grave, and I'd bet a hundred gold dragons she'll do it, too.” He barked a laugh. “Seven hells, she could do it now.”

Sansa’s brows knit.

“Didn't that old fool Lysinder tell you?” he said. “They dig a grave for the life one of their brothers leaves behind when he joins them.”

“You haven't joined them.”

He shrugged. “No, but I dug my own grave anyway. I expect them to put me in it when I die. No point digging two holes.”

"Will you go eagerly back to your life there?" Sansa asked.

"There's food, a warm bed, and no nobles and their petty, meaningless conflicts," he said.  "It's a good enough for my last years."

"'Last years?'" Sansa scoffed. "I'd bet a hundred gold dragons you've not yet seen your thirty-fifth year. You're like to see Spring again."

He scowled, taking a deep drink of wine.

Sansa softened her tone. "Do you wish for death?"

"I have."

"That is not an answer. I once wished with all my foolish heart to marry Joffrey and be his queen. That does not mean I wish for it now."

Sandor drew in a deep breath as he looked over at her. "No, little bird, I do not wish for death."

"Good," Sansa said as she got to her feet. "It would be a waste of an honorable man. Goodnight, Sandor Clegane."

"Goodnight, Lady Stark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 14, 2014 - This chapter was updated and revised in preparation for the new chapters.


	5. Chapter 5

###  **V**

The boy was still screaming despite Sansa’s efforts to calm him.  Shifting him up to her shoulder again, she patted his back.

“Hush now, little one,” she cooed.  The child continued to wail.

“I’ll take him, m’lady,” said Elyse, appearing from behind the woolen drape that hid the bed from the rest of the cottage.  Her husband, Henrik, was sleeping within, recovering from the fall he had taken from the First Tower earlier in the morning.  The snow had saved him, though his left leg was broken and his right shoulder dislocated.  Brother Nellus, the most knowledgeable of the septons in the ways of healing, had seen to both, but Henrik would have to rest for several weeks.

Elyse was bare to the waist.  “Here now,” she said as she took the child with an expertness Sansa envied.  He quieted and began to suckle.

Harrold had surprised her with his unflagging confidence that someday they would have a child.  In the years they had been married, not one night had gone by that he did not stroke her stomach after they had made love and smile at her.  “Tonight, my dear Sansa,” he would say.  “Tonight.”

He had been a kind man, gentle with her in the beginning and passionate as her confidence grew.  He taught her to please him and to please herself.  He gave her Winterfell.  She had loved him as much as she could love a stranger.

“Thank you for holding him, m’lady,” Elyse said.  Her smile showed the gap in her front teeth.  “You’re good with him.”

“You wouldn't think that to have heard him a few moments ago,” Sansa laughed.

Elyse shook her head.  “You rocked and sang to him, touched him.  Those is all the right things to do.  He just wanted the one thing you couldn’t give.  If you’d had milk for him, he’d have just as soon called you mama than me.”

Swallowing the sudden melancholy, Sansa turned toward the drape.  “If Henrik needs anything, call for the brothers or send for me so that _I_ might call them.”

“Thank you, m’lady,” Elyse replied.  As she bobbed a curtsy, she moved her son from one breast to the other.  “Blessings upon you.”

Outside the cottage the air was shimmering with crystals of ice so tiny they could hardly be seen.  Though the sun was shining, it was bitterly cold.  There was some noise from the men laying stones for the east wing of the castle and the occasional ring of Gendry’s hammer on a steel of the girder for the glass gardens, but the yard was empty as Sansa walked into the shadow of the castle.

It was strange not to hear the barked corrections Sandor had for the guardsmen.  She had grown used to listening for his voice as she strode across the trodden snow of the yard.  From the window of her solar she could look down and see him pacing along between pairs of bodies, the tips of their weapons flashing in the occasional beam of sun.

When the drills had finished for the day, he could often be found in the paddock beside the stables, cantering the massive destriers in patterns of circles and straight lines.  He held the reins lightly, carelessly with one gloved hand, the other resting on his thigh.  He rode with an elegance Sansa could never hope to emulate.  She handled Jonquil capably, but there was no beauty in the way she guided the mare.  Sandor could harness the strength of the destriers and make it look effortless.

Sansa’s thoughts guided her feet until she was within sight of the paddock.  The snow within it was stained brown with mud and manure, the signs of frequent use.  Sansa had not ridden much in the last fortnight and though Jonquil was well looked after by the grooms, she felt guilty for not having at least visited her with a few carrot tops in hand.

To her surprise, Sandor was standing at the center of the paddock watching as the three young boys rode the bay stallion, the piebald mare, and flaxen mare in a circle around him. He watched them closely, offering correction when it was needed.

Sansa recognized Derrik, the second son of the baker, struggling to keep the attention of the stallion.  When he pulled on the reins instead of tapping him with his heels, Sandor charged forward and tugged on his ankle.  The boy slid right over the stallion’s side and into the snow.  The horse whinnied in protest and sidestepped away.

Sansa stifled a laugh as she heard Sandor snarl, “With a blade or lance in your hand, boy, you’ll let your rein lie.  Don’t make me tie your damn hands behind your back.”

Derrik got to his feet in hurry and jogged sheepishly over to the stallion, who had come to stand behind Sandor, nuzzling his shoulder.  He touched his muzzle absently before he hoisted young Derrik back into the saddle.  As his eyes followed the boy and horse as they trotted away, he caught sight of Sansa.

“Form up!” he snapped.  “Salute the lady of Winterfell.”

The boys, their movements still unsure, turned their horses into the center of the paddock and halted.  Derrik and the other bigger boy exchanged an uncertain look, but the smallest of their company pantomimed lifting a banner and cried, “Long live Lady Sansa!”  The others followed a moment later, holding their clenched fists in the air.

Sansa walked to the fence.  “Come forward, young master,” she said, formal, “and tell me your name.”

The boy tapped the piebald mare with his heels and she took a few bored steps, stopping just before her nose touched the fence. “I am Andreas.”

“Not Myrden’s youngest, certainly,” said Sansa.

“The same,” he replied, puffing his chest out.

When they had arrived at Winterfell two years past, Mydren Thatcher, had been carrying his youngest son in his arms, a babe of no more than five years. The boy that was before her now was nearly six inches taller and had the blond hair of his mother and the dark eyes of his father.

“I would hardly recognize you, Master Andreas,” Sansa said. “You are nearly a man grown.” She turned to the others. “And Master Derrik, I see you have grown as well. Are you not two and ten now?” He nodded. “Tell me, what is your companion’s name?”

Before Derrik could speak, the boy said, “I am called Tomas, and I have seen ten namedays.”

“Congratulations, Master Tomas,” said Sansa. Glancing over at Sandor, she raised a brow.

“Back to your drills!” he called.

Putting heels to their mounts, they trotted away.

In three strides, Sandor crossed the paddock to stand at the fence.

“You will not permit another man to ride the destriers,” Sansa said, “but you will allow unschooled boys?”

“They’re not unschooled,” he replied. “They’ve been at this for an hour already.”

“You’re training them.”

He nodded. “It is the sons of farmers who will be the warriors. You said that.”

“I did,” Sansa said, looking out at the boys as they tried unsuccessfully to urge their horses into a canter. Her own brothers had begun their training in the knight’s craft when they of that age. She thought of them, all slain, save Jon.  Bran would be fourteen and ready to be squired.  Rickon would be nine, already riding and swinging his wooden sword with precision.

Though there were men in the guard who might have made good knights, they were too old to learn the sword and lance so well that they did not have to think when they struck a blow. Sansa could remember her father telling Bran that the time it takes to think something through could be the difference between victory and a blade through the gut. She had run away then, fighting back tears.

 “Will they make worthy knights, these bakers’ and thatchers’ boys?” she asked.

“Aye,” said Sandor.

Untying the blue ribbon that adorned the end of her braided hair, Sansa held it out to him. “Their lady’s favor. Give it to the boy who rides best today.”

He frowned down at the ribbon. “They’ll be fighting over the damned thing for weeks.”

“Competition is good for them,” said Sansa

Sandor snorted, crossing his arms.  “Next they’ll be demanding a kiss and a purse of gold dragons.”

“Winter knights, and their squires, have no use for the pomp of tourneys,” Sansa said as she turned away.  She felt Sandor’s gaze on her back as she walked toward the castle.

Lissen was waiting in the solar when she arrived.

“Cold as the Stranger’s heart out,” she said as she helped Sansa out of her cloak, gloves, boots, and layered skirts. In her woolen stockings and underdress, she slipped into the privy to relieve herself and exchange the scrap of cloth she wore inside of her small clothes. Her moonsblood had never failed to arrive with the rising of the full moon, even throughout the two years she had prayed its stoppage would announce the coming a child.

“I am sorry, Harrold,” she whispered before sitting down by the fire and helping herself to the bowl of steaming stew and chuck of dark bread that waited there.

“You’ve lost the fine silk ribbon I tied in your hair!” Lissen grumbled as she loosened the braid and brushed Sansa’s locks. Once she had finished, Sansa kissed her on the cheek and thanked her for her help. The girl bobbed a curtsey and bore the dishes out.

Sansa paused only for a moment by the window, but, hearing nothing, made her way down the glass gardens.

The women working there greeted her merrily, but it was Brother Lysinder who appeared at her side. “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said. “I have spent the early hours here learning the gardener’s craft.”

“Well, there is certainly no one better than Mistress Uma and her girls,” said Sansa.

“Where have you enjoyed your morning, my lady?” Lysinder asked.

“In town,” she replied. “Elyse’s new boy needed a pair of arms while she tended to her husband.”

Lysinder smiled. “Children are a true blessing from the Mother.”

“They are,” she said, refusing to let the sadness of earlier return. “But the Mother was not kind to Lord Hardyng and I.”

“Ah,” Lysinder sighed, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “She can be cruel, giving us hope only to take the child away long before the confinement.”

Sansa balked, unsure of how to respond. “It is by the gods’ grace that I did not suffer that loss,” she said at last. “My aunt, Lysa Arryn, became with child many times, only to lose them. Lord Robert, gods rest him, was her old son.”

Lysinder’s brows rose. “Did Lord Hardyng have other children…bastards?”

Sansa shook her head. “I asked him on our wedding night. We had just promised never to lie to each other. I believe he spoke true.”

“I’m sure he did, my lady,” said Lysinder. “Now, what is this that I hear of our Sandor giving riding lessons?”

“Is there anything you do not hear about?” Sansa laughed.

“A septon must listen hard to hear the voices of the gods. People are a lesser challenge .”

Sansa recounted what she had seen, concluding with, “And he said that it is farmers’ sons who will become the warriors, not their fathers in the guard.”

“Mm,” hummed Lysinder. “Sandor has seen a great deal of war. It has marked him deeply. But that is something you already know, my lady. You knew him when he called himself the Hound.”

She nodded.

Offering his arm, Lysinder asked, “Will you walk with me and tell me of that time?”

Sansa hesitated for a moment and then slid her hand onto his forearm. As they left the glass gardens behind, she said, “I do not quite know where to begin.”

Lysinder smiled, but only waited.

Sansa drew in a deep breath. “This is the second time he has been at Winterfell. He came with King Robert when my father was summoned to King’s Landing. I saw little of him then, too frightened to look, but after my father was killed, Joffrey found some sort sick pleasure in forcing him upon me.”

Lysinder’s eyes went wide.

“No,” said Sansa. “Not…like that. He was my guard and escort at the Red Keep.”

“Your paths crossed there, did they?” the septon asked, echoing her words from the night they had arrived.

“It was not a lie,” Sansa said.

“No, it was not. Now, please continue. I beg your pardon for the interruption.”

“It was terrible at the start,” she said. “He drank, and it brought out the beast in him. I was so afraid that I could barely speak more than the courtesies I was taught to chirp like a trained bird. Yet…he was the only man in that bloody castle that never hurt me, never laid hands on me.”

She sighed, looking down at Lysinder. “The knights I had dreamed of being charmed by were the ones who did not question their liege lord when he demanded that they strip a girl of two and ten naked before the court and beat her bloody. Sandor, despite his position in the Kingsguard, had never accepted the knighthood, but by the time he went away, I was sure he was the only true knight I had ever known. But now is a member of the Brotherhood of—”

“Perhaps he could have been,” Lysinder interrupted, “but a devotion to the gods demands that a man forsake his past _and_ his future.  Take young Brother Erik.  Though he is not so pious now, he has realized that there is no place from him the realm of nobility, even lesser nobility, that his father occupied.  In time, he will be a proud servant of the Seven.

“Sandor may have denied and abandoned the titles and spectacle of the world he was born into, but it is an inextricable part of him.  He was running from it when he came to us, so tired, so sick from it… I could do nothing more for him than heal the wounds of his body and wait.  Only he could find his way to the life the gods intended him for.”

The old man stopped, taking Sansa’s hand. “I rejoice to hear the song of steel from the yard and the voices of young boys calling for Master Clegane.”  A smile touched his lips.  “It has been years since Sandor allowed anyone to use his father’s name.”

The sound of a horn wailing in the distance drew Sansa’s attention away from what she had been about to ask.  “The alarm from the watchtower!  Forgive me, Brother, I must—”

“Go,” he said, waving her on.  “Make no apologies.  I will follow as quickly as my bones will allow.”

Lifting her skirt, Sansa ran through the door and into the passage.  She sprinted past a few faces that were poking out of doors.  “Stay inside!” she ordered.

The cold hit her like the blows she had taken from the Kingsguard as a girl, cutting through her thin dress.  The wet of the snow soaked through her slippers and stockings as she ran through the yard.  She ignored the calls of her name.

A single rider came galloping through the thin opening in the towering oaken doors of the outer wall’s gate.  Sansa froze, recognizing the blood bay of the destrier stallion and the broad shoulders of Sandor astride him.

The pair slid to a halt a few paces from her.  “A column on foot.  A league north of the walls.”

“North?”

Sandor nodded.

“Take me to them.”

Sandor’s fingers closed around her forearm and lifted her into the saddle in front of him.  He enclosed her in his cloak and slid his free arm around her waist.  Warmth spread through her body, though her feet were beginning to sting with the cold and wet.

Sandor wheeled the stallion’s dark head around and put his heels to him.  They shot out through the gate, the wind whipping Sansa’s unbound hair back from her face.

She saw the column immediately.  It had to be several hundred men strong, but they were moving slowly.  There was no flash of open weaponry, but wights often used the dulled and battered weapons they had once carried in life.  They had not been seen around Winterfell since Harrold had retaken it.

“Two horsemen at the head,” Sandor said, his chest rumbling at Sansa’s back.  “Horses look thin, but whole enough.”

As they got closer, the figures began to come into focus.  The two riders were all in black.  “Brother of the Night’s Watch,” Sansa exclaimed.  “Jon!”

One of the riders put his spurs to his mount.  It launched into a crooked canter.

“Peace!” the man called, raising a hand.  “We seek audience with Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

As Sandor reined the stallion to a halt Sansa threw off the cloak.  “I am Lady Sansa.”

The rider, his cheeks red with the cold, was hardly more than a boy.  He had no more than Sansa’s own eighteen years.  “M-m’lady, I bear a message from your half-brother Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“You bear more than that,” Sandor snapped.  Sansa silenced him with a pinch to the thigh that faced away from the boy.

“Speak quickly,” she said.

“The Wall has no place for these wildling refugees,” he recited, his speech clearly practiced.  “The Lord Commander asks that you take them into your care, m’lady.  They will starve and freeze at Castle Black.”

“How many are they?”

“Two hundred and fourteen at last count, m’lady.”

Sansa’s breath caught in her chest.  _So many.  How will we feed them and house them all?_   “We will care for them as best we can.  Welcome to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, m’lady!” the boy exclaimed, relief flooding his face.

Sansa nodded.  “Ride,” she whispered urgently to Sandor.

 * * * * *

 Had he not lifted her down from the destrier Sansa would have fallen.  Her legs and feet were burning.

“Clear the great hall!” she ordered, leaning on Sandor’s arm.  “Fetch hot broth and bread, as much as we have.  Then make more.”

The crowd that had gathered to greet her scattered.

“I need proper boots,” she said to no one in particular.

“You need some sense,” Sandor grumbled.  He caught her behind the knees and pulled her into his arms.  He swept the edges of his cloak around her again.

Sansa drew in a sharp breath.  The heat of his body was pain and ecstasy at once.  Her frozen limbs ached as the feeling began to return to them.  Her heart hammered in her chest, though whether it was from his closeness or the shock of the new arrivals she did not know.  Sandor strode toward the castle, where Lissen was waiting with an armful of skirts.

“I’ll see to the guard,” said he after he had set Sansa down by the kitchen fire.  She nodded, but he had already gone.

“What’s happening, m’lady?” Lissen asked.  “Mother and Maiden, you’re frozen to the bone!”

Sansa stripped out of her sodden stockings, pulling on another pair as quick as she could.  “A gift from the Wall,” she said as she donned two more skirts and a faded red dress over them.  Lissen helped her lace up her boots.

By the time the column arrived, she was standing alone at the threshold of the great hall, both of its doors thrown open and the fire roaring behind her.

The Night’s Watchman who had parlayed with her before—his name, he said, was Joryn—as well as his companion, an grizzled man with a week’s growth of beard and called Galder, dismounted and knelt before her.

“Rise, please,” she said.  “Come inside.  There’s food and warmth.  Your horses will be seen to.”

“Where do we put the rabble, m’lady?” said Galder, his voice gravely and broken with disuse.

“Inside,” Sansa said, frowning.  “Our fires are for them as well.”

Both men lowered their heads again.  Over them, Sansa cried, “I am Sansa Stark, lady of this castle, Winterfell.  You are welcome here.”

A few of the skeletal faces turned toward her and barred their teeth in ghoulish grins as they shuffled toward the portal.

 * * * * *

Hours later, Sansa fell back against the servant’s door to the hall.  Her back and shoulders ached from bearing baskets and satchels.  Her voice was tired from yelling.  The wildlings had been settled and fed, though there was hardly the space for them.  Most were women, though there was a smattering of invalid men and children.  A few of the women were garbed in boiled leather jerkins and carried a variety of weaponry.  Galder and Joryn had said they were spearwives, sent by their princess to protect the column.

“The Lord Commander kept the rest for himself,” said Galder.  “There’s not half the men there should be on that ice.”

Laying a hand on her stomach, Sansa concentrated on breathing.

“Take this.  You look like you need it.”

She opened her eyes to see Sandor standing before her, holding out a flagon of wine.  “You creep as quietly as a fox,” she said as she, with considerable effort, stepped away from the door.  She took the flagon and tipped it back.  The wine was hot and heavily spiced as it sloshed into her mouth and down her throat.  Her stomach burned, but her limbs seemed to strengthen.  She paused to take a breath and then drank again.

The good side of Sandor’s mouth turned up.  “Are we going to drink here in the passage, then?  Wouldn’t bother me.  I’ve had worse.”

Sansa rolled her eyes as she shoved the flagon into his chest.  “There’s certainly no space to be had in there,” she said, nodding toward the great hall.

“The kitchen fires aren’t yet out.”

Sansa followed him across the threshold and into the kitchens.  The ceilings were by no means lofty, but were finely vaulted.  In the half light of the dwindling hearth fires, they were filled with shadows.

There were no proper chairs to be had, but two casks of ale were positioned near the fire to warm for the morning.  The ground had frozen long ago and with it most of the wares in the cellars.

Sansa settled onto one of the casks.  Sandor poured and handed her a cup of wine.

“There’s no water in this,” she said absentmindedly.

“No,” he replied, taking a brief gulp from the flagon.  “But it’s needed on a day like this.”

“What are we going to do with them all?” Sansa sighed.

“Put them to work,” said Sandor.  “They’re more mouths to feed, but they’ve also got a set of hands each…most of them.  Give them stone and mortar, straw and wood and soon enough they’ll have houses enough to keep the winter at bay.”

Sansa contemplated, starting into the fire.  “We’ll have to ration the stores we have until the next harvest from the glass gardens.  Even then…”

“They’re good hunters some of these men, and their women too.  We’ll have meat.”

“I worry about the bread.”

“We’ll ration, as you said.”

Sansa glanced over at him.  The burned side of his face was toward her, his black locks tied at the nape of his neck with a length of hide.

Sansa smiled, resigned.  “Thank you for letting me ride with you…before.”

“It was worth seeing that crow’s face when you rode up with nearly nothing on and only your fire hair to keep you warm.”

“What?” Sansa laughed.

“You looked just as feral as those wildlings,” he said.  “But untouched by the cold in that sheet you call a dress.  Shocked the hell out of me.  Shocked him trice so much.  Couldn’t have turned whiter if you had been sitting the damned Iron Throne.”

Sansa shuddered.  “If I never see King’s Landing again it will be too soon.”

“Too bad it didn’t get eaten by that green fire,” Sandor snarled.  He went to take a drink of his wine, but thought again and put it down.  “Get some sleep, little bird.  You’re going to need it.”

She did not bother to watch him go, but drank down the rest of her wine and then made her way to her chambers.

Lissen had laid a fire, but it was dwindling.  Sansa lit not candles, simply undressed and stood before the glowing coals.  The cool air left her bare skin tingling as she paced.

The wildlings pressed at her mind.  So little was certain with them.  How could they come to live in a town when they had been roaming the forests and mountains beyond the Wall for generations?  Sandor was convinced there would be few problems, yet she could not be.  They would need to fell trees for cabins, find straw for their roofs.  There was work aplenty, but what if they were unwilling to do it?

Pressing her fisted hands into her eyes, Sansa groaned.  Had she indeed seen smiles among the wildlings?  Had they thought her some fiery apparition, as Sandor had said?  She tried to imagine how they would have looked pressed against each other as the destrier slid to a stop at the head of the column.  All she could feel was the burning heat of Sandor’s body.

She touched her cheeks; they were aflame.  She stopped, glancing at the chest at the foot of her bed  She sank to her knees before it, the bearskin rug soft against her skin.  She lifted the lid slowly, removing the gowns she had worn for the week of feasting after her wedding.  They were silken and velvet, fabrics that would only be ruined by a walk through the yard.  She discarded them in a pile, pulling out the last length of fabric.  It was tattered and bloodstained.  It still smelled of smoke.  She held it to her breast.

During her years at the Eyrie, she had wrapped herself in it each night, allowing the wool to scratch her skin until she became accustomed to it.  It had been tucked away after she was wedded and bedded, though when Harrold died and she could not sleep alone in her bed, she had laid it across herself.  She would begin to drift off and then, invariably, an image of him would appear before her tightly closed eyes.

Half awake, she would slide her hand down her body until she found the wetness between her legs.  She would massage there as Harrold had taught her, until she found her release.  Then she could sleep.

Putting the wildlings from her mind, she crept into bed with the cloak around her shoulders.  She pressed her eyes closed.  He was sitting on the ale cask in the kitchen.  The fading light of the coals was illuminating his face.  He had not been smiling, but his gray eyes turned to look at her.

Sansa gasped out his name.  And she could sleep.  She was going to need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 14, 2014 - This chapter was updated and revised in preparation for the new chapters.


	6. Chapter 6

###  **VI**

“Your saddle bags have been well stocked and your horses are fat and freshly shod,” Sansa said, frowning down at the two men of the Night’s Watch before her.

Since their arrival a fortnight past, Galder and Joryn had done little more than sleep and sit by the fire in their shared chamber, eating and drinking ale.  They had grudgingly accepted the baths Sansa had ordered drawn for them and agreed to have their clothes laundered and mended, but they continued to say little to anyone or be bothered to help with the efforts to get the wildlings settled.  Sansa was relieved to send them back to the Wall.

“When you reach Castle Black,” she continued, “tell the Lord Commander that if he wishes more supplies he must send a party prepared to bear them back.  The people of Winterfell are craftsmen, women, and children.  Their duties are here.”

“Aye, m’lady,” rumbled Galder.  “Do you have any other message?”

“No.”  Though she would have liked to have told Jon what lazy louts he had sent, he had woes enough.  From the wildling women she had heard tell of starvation, frigid temperatures, and the mounting threat of an attack from the North.  What the storytellers had not seemed to agree on was just _what_ was attacking.  Some called them “white walkers” and "Others.” Though she had rarely listened to the frightening stories Old Nan had told the Stark children—Bran and Arya had always been rapt—she recognized such names from them.  She could not recall what sorts of creatures they referred to, but she had resolved to find out.

As a half sister she had no greetings to send to Jon; Arya had always been closer to him than she.  She simply nodded at Galder and Joryn, saying, “Safe journey, brothers.”

They bowed—the gnarled Galder stiffly and haltingly—and took their leave.

Sansa held back her sigh of relief as she stood and stretched.  Though she had added a thin cushion to the seat, Harrold’s high-backed chair still grew uncomfortable after several hours.  It had been moved up to her solar, which now served as her audience chamber, after the wildlings took up residence in the great hall.  She would have preferred the horsehair chaise that had previously occupied the wolfskin rug before the hearth, but, as she knew well, it was too simple a seat for the lady of the castle.

The furniture that had filled the solar was now crowded into her bedchamber, leaving the room bare save the tall, hard chair atop the rug at its center.  As she sat to hear the grievances of her people, Sansa would often touch the pricked ears of the horses’ heads at the arms.  They were already beginning to shine with wear.

Before, she had found formal audiences inappropriate for such a small community as Winterfell’s and had simply visited those who wished to see her in their own homes, but the population had doubled with the arrival of the wildlings and so had the number of problems to address.  Shut up in her solar, she felt cloistered and aloof, dispensing justice like the queen in King’s Landing.  She stood above her people and it made her uncomfortable.

“Your affection for your subjects is admirable,” Brother Lysidner had said to her when she had mentioned her unease.

His words, the formality of them, had shocked her.  She stiffened, which he marked well.

“I understand, my lady, that you do not see them as such,” he continued, more gently, “but the people of Winterfell _are_ your subjects.  You are their liege lady, no matter how benevolent.  You may dress in homespun, help them with their work and hold their children, but your nobility cannot be eschewed.  The way you speak, move…”  He smiled.  “Your people obey you out of love, yes, but also in awe.”

Sansa had felt herself flushing, though not because she had been flattered, but because she had been scolded.  She wanted so much to simply be a woman of Winterfell, one who worked alongside her fellows to survive the darkest days of winter.  She often fancied that she was, yet she was never questioned, always heeded, and served first.  Those things she enjoyed despite her illusions that she was as common as her people.

All of these thoughts must have shown in her face, as Lysinder took her hand between his weathered ones and said, “Winterfell is a blessed place, free from the pretense and intrigue of the South.  Your people, though liberated from the rule of your aunt, a lady they only feared, cannot abandon the ways in which they were raised.  You will always be apart from them, but they will always admire you for your kindness and serve you well.”

Sansa smiled as she thought of her people, sending up a prayer of thanks for their patience and generosity.  Many had offered their homes to wildling women and their children.  The men had stopped their work on the castle walls in order to build cottages.  They were crude, but kept the winds away and were dry and warm inside.

At first, Sansa had feared that the wildlings would be unmanageable—uncivilized—but she had quickly learned that while their ways were different, they were clever, resourceful, and willing to work.  Certainly, there had been complaints and conflicts, but they seemed to understand the customs of the Seven Kingdoms, even if they did not approve of them.

“They'll do anything for bowls of warm soup,” Sandor had said one evening as they drank wine together in her solar. “Even live like us.”  Though he spent most of the day carrying timbers and thatching roofs with the other men, his work with the guard, the horses, and even the squire boys continued in the early mornings and after the evening meals. Sansa awoke to the song of steel and heard it as she wove before retiring for the night.

Their talks were brief, one or both of them exhausted and curt, but they gave Sansa pleasure.  After Sandor had gone, she always felt lighter of heart.  Though the production of warm woolen garments for the wildlings had supplanted her work on the tapestry, she had found a few moments each day to sew.  She had commissioned a length of fine black fabric, four linen shirts, a fur cloak, a pair of leather riding chaps, three pairs of black woolen breeches and stockings, a spool of thread the color of the noonday summer sun.  The seamstresses and tanner had been surprised; she rarely ordered anything new unless what she had was threadbare.  Such clothes would have shamed her as a girl in King’s Landing, but so much was scarce in Winterfell already. And the clothes were not for her.

The black fabric had been completed first. She took it to her rooms, where she had been cutting, sewing, and embroidering it each night before she slept.  Many a morning she had woken to the ring of swords in the yard and found herself still sitting up against her pillows with her hands on the fabric and needle.

She had intended to make two tunics, but she had only material enough for one.  She had finished the yellow stitching and had just begun on the three snarling dogs across the breast.

The other pieces of clothing she had commissioned were tucked away in the chest at the foot of her bed.  She wondered, though, when she might find the time to present them to Sandor, along with her request for him to stay and serve as master-at-arms. The thought of it still frightened her a little. She feared he would tell her no.

The opening of the solar door announced the arrival of another visitor.  Sansa turned and, as her eyes settled on the figure at the threshold, grinned.  Striding across the floor was a stout woman with dark locks plaited down to her knees.  She wore a studded jerkin of boiled leather and an assortment of knives at her waist.  Her eyes were as dark as dragonglass.

“Lady,” she said, inclining her head.

“Pyma,” Sansa replied, “welcome.  Would you like a cup of wine?”

Pyma Blackeyes, spearwife and leader and protector of the Winterfell wildlings—named as such by Val, goodsister of Mance Rayder, and mistakenly described as a princess by Galder—nodded.  The little woman had been instrumental in peacekeeping since their arrival.  Her methods were certainly harsher than Sansa’s but effective nonetheless.  Once she had forced a woman who had been stealing her hosts’ bread and hoarding it in her cloak to not only return the pilfered goods, but to spend the next three days naked in the kitchens learning to bake and yet eating none of what she produced.

Sansa had once heard Joryn call her the “black bitch” when speaking with Galder about their journey.  From what Sansa knew of her, she could not have taken well to the ‘crows’ declaring themselves in charge of the welfare of the women and children journeying south.  More than the twenty would have died had Pyma not made the rounds of the camp each night to ensure everyone had at least a scrap of bread.

She was coarse, unmannered, and stubborn, but she would do anything for her people.  Sansa had warmed to her immediately.

She had rejected Sansa’s offer of quarters in the castle, choosing to stay with Gendry and Lissen.  The first house to be completed had been offered to her, but she simply spat on the ground and pushed two women and four children inside.  Lissen reported that while she snored quite loudly, she was otherwise a helpful guest.

“Makes wonderful cheese!” the maid had said, holding out a parcel wrapped in dirty cloth.  It was a light brown color and tasted of caramel and goat’s milk.  It had since become a staple of Winterfell’s meals, as many other wildling women had found out that Sansa fancied Pyma’s and offered their own as often as it was made.

“What news?” asked Sansa as she handed over a horn cup filled to the brim with spiced red.  A thin slice of orange floated at the top.  Her father, Eddard, had once told her that the fruit trees—lemons, oranges, and limes—were what kept the castle free of sickness in the wintertime.  She had ordered two of each kind brought from the Eyrie, and they were flourishing in the glass gardens.

“Three more built,” Pyma said, in reference to houses, after draining the wine and eating the orange slice, peel and all.  “Rispa and her two sons moved into one.  I would be surprised if the woodsmith and his wife did not have a feast in celebration.”

“Indeed,” Sansa chuckled, having had to hear the repeated complaints from them about Rispa’s refusal to speak to them without cursing them colorfully first.  Pyma had flogged her once and that had quieted her, but after she did not speak to her hosts at all and simply took her share of the meals, spitting on the floor when she was addressed.

“Another turn of the moon and your hall will be yours again.  You long for it, I think.”

Sansa nodded.  “All of Winterfell’s men and women supped together there.  Before.  I hope that you and your people will join us in the future.”

“Some will,” said Pyma.  “I will.”

Sansa smiled, resisting the urge to take Pyma’s hand.  It was something she and her good friends had done when they were children.  It was somehow not troubling to her to realize that she had come to see the wildling as a friend.

“Tell me, Pyma, are your people happy here?”

“We will survive.  That will be enough for most.”  He tone grew grimmer as she continued, “It will be a long war, lady.  Too long to yet consider its end.  But…many are grateful.”

As reassured as she imagined she could be, Sansa allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up.  “I am glad to hear it.  Though they are not of this land, I will offer them the same protection as any Westrosi.  I hope they understand that Winterfell can be their home as much as it is mine.”

Pyma nodded, her eyes flicking to the long braid that fell over Sansa’s shoulder and curled once in her lap.  “You are kissed by fire,” she said.  “Lucky.  You bring good fortune to this place.  All free folk know this.”

Sansa’s brows rose.  She had never heard such a thing before.  “Fire destroyed this castle.  I don’t see how its kiss could ever bring luck here.”

“Aye, the flame can burn, but it can also give life.”  Pyma gestured around them.  “Look at your castle now.  Would you or all your people be here, like this, if it had not burned?  What life would there be if it was ruled by soft southern lords and ladies who would never survive the winter?  Stone does not burn, it hardens in the heat.  A woman kissed by fire is hard, too.  Strong.”

“Not qualities cultivated in young ladies,” Sansa laughed as she took a sip of her wine.  “Attractive women are soft-spoken and obedient, especially to their husbands.”

“A woman kissed by fire scorches weak men,” Pyma snorted, as if it was simple knowledge even a child would have.

“Perhaps that is why I have not married again.”

Sansa had been teasing, but Pyma’s eyes narrowed, her expression serious.  “Many are drawn to the flame, but few would come away unmarked.”

Sansa thought sorrowfully of Harrold, fallen in a battle she begged him to enter, but as she tried to remember his face, his form was replaced by Sandor’s.  His scars were evidence of the true kiss of fire.

“The burned warrior,” said Pyma, as though reading Sansa’s thoughts, “Clegane.  He has known the touch of the flame and still lives.  He rode at your back when you first appeared before us.  You were alight then, flaming with life, passion.  The fools who came with us from the Wall shied away from the heat, but Clegane basked in it.  He is made stronger by the fire, like the stones of your castle.”

Sandor, too, had told her that she had been burning that day, feral and fearless.  She had thought little of it, yet it had also been marked by the wildlings.  Pyma’s assertions about her were perhaps a bit too romantic, though certainly pleasing.  The people of the North valued courage and practicality over good breeding and fine dress, both of which Sandor had soundly rejected for as long as Sansa had known him.  She could understand how Pyma could come to respect him more than the other men from Westros she had met both at the Wall and Winterfell.

“Do you admire him?” Sansa asked without thinking to stop herself.

Pyma shifted her weight back onto her heels and took a slow sip of wine.  “He works, rides, and fights well,” she said meditatively.  “He’s not young, but not old either.  He’s big, a good protector.”  A smile tugged at her lips.  “If he was one of the free folk he would have his choice of many women who wanted him.”

Sansa’s chest tightened with a strange feeling of possessiveness.  Ignoring such folly, she said, “Many of your people have chosen to…embrace men here.”  Her words were less coarse than Sandor’s had been when, one evening in Sansa’s solar, he had told her: “The wildling woman’s spearwives have been staying out with the guards.  Found a few of them pressed up against walls, yowling like cats in heat, but they work too.”

“More mouths to feed soon,” Sansa had replied.

Pyma tipped her head to the side in acknowledgement.  “Clegane is not the only good man.”

“Is he a favorite of many?”

“Some, to be sure.”  Pyma’s black eyes searched Sansa’s face as she spoke.  “But for one who is called to the flame, no dimmer light will suffice.”  The wildling stood suddenly and bowed, startling Sansa with the gesture of Westrosi formality.  “Thank you for the wine, lady.”  As she rose, she wore an impish grin.  “If you do not soon claim him, others will try.  I will be among them.  Good day, lady.”

 * * * * *

The sun was a blurry orb of light behind the solid cover of clouds as Sansa galloped Jonquil through the forest a day later.  The wind and the business at the castle had quieted enough for her to escape her solar for an afternoon ride, much to her relief.

When she had arrived in the stables in her riding habit with her hair tightly braided and pinned up, the stable master had demanded that she have an escort.  Though she protested, the boy he had sent to fetch a trio of guards returned with Sandor Clegane and his two of his three squires.

“Only a fool rides alone with a bloody war on,” he admonished gruffly.  “My lady,” he added after the stable master had given him a horrified look.  With a shrug of one of his shoulders, he went to saddle the destrier stallion.  Derrik and Andreas hurried after him, to see to their own mounts.

The massive horses were thundering along beside Sansa’s palfrey, their breath forming a cloud around the whole party.  The boys’ seats had improved quite a bit since she had last seen them ride.  As they warmed up together at the trot, Andreas had told her that it was Tomas who presently wore the blue ribbon she had given as her favor, as he had fought the best sword match that morning.  She had forthwith promised that she would come to watch them in their next three-man melee and would give a kiss to the victor.

She had expected Sandor to roll his eyes at her, but he had simply held her gaze with his steely one.  Her heartbeat jumped, making Jonquil tense and shift beneath her.  Turning away with a whoop, she had called to the boys to join her in a gallop.  Exuberantly, they had laid their heels to their mounts and charged after her.

The sprint had not lasted too long, as Sansa did not want to stray far from Winterfell.  Slowing Jonquil to a walk, she took a deep breath and enjoyed the quiet of the snow-covered trees.

“You ride so bravely, my lady,” Andreas said as he slowed his mare beside hers.

“As do you, Master Andreas,” she replied, in higher spirits than she had been in for a fortnight.  “It is an honor to ride at your side.”

“A noble lady must always have her knights to protect her,” he declared, lifting his chin.

“You'll not be a knight for a while yet,” Sandor said.  “You've yet to pick up a lance.”

“You have, Master, but you're not a knight either.”

“Andreas, watch your mouth!” Derrik chided.

“Master Clegane,” the youngest boy continued, “if you were in the Kingsguard, but you weren't a knight, doesn't that mean I can be in Lady Sansa’s guard without being a knight, too?”

Sansa raised a brow at Sandor, who shrugged.  “You can be,” she said, “if you become as valiant and skilled in all the knight’s arts as Master Clegane is. But would you not rather be called Ser Andreas?"

"I would be, my lady!"

"Good," she said. "Now, will you lead the way home?"

The boys nodded and trotted off, leaving Sansa and Sandor to follow.

"Have they named the horses?" she asked, recalling a discussion they had had a few nights past about giving the destriers names in place of epithets.

He nodded. "The piebald mare is called Tasha. The flaxen is Witch Hazel. She has a temper when she's in heat. The roan is Alysanne, after the song."

"And your stallion?"

He frowned. "They gave him a name from a song, too." He stroked the stallions neck. "Poor bastard is called Florian."

Sansa stifled a laugh behind her hand. "After Florian the Fool? That doesn't suit him at all!"

He shrugged.

"My sympathy for suffering such a title, Florian," she said, patting the stallion on the rump. He flicked his ears back good naturedly.

"They thought it would please you," said Sandor. "To match your Jonquil."

"I shall have to thank them as well," she said, shaking her head. "They are so eager to please...especially you, _Master_ Clegane."

He shot her a glare. "If they don't, they know I'll find another to take their place."

Sansa smiled. "I don't believe you. You wouldn't have chosen those three if you thought others to be better." When he did not reply, she took a steadying breath and asked, at long last, "What will they do when you have gone?"

Bringing Florian to a halt, he waited for Sansa to turn Jonquil back to face him.

His expression was hard as he asked, "What do you want of me, _Lady_ Stark?"

She answered honestly, “Winterfell is in need of Knight Master.”

“Then find yourself a knight," he replied, urging Florian forward again.

Spurring Jonquil, Sansa cut him off. “You bested every man in King's Landing once! A Knight Master he must be in the summer, perhaps, but titles mean little in the depths of winter.”

Sandor shook his head. “And when spring comes?  No.  Winterfell is the seat of the North.  If you want more than a guard...if you want men to fight and die under your banner, you need a knight to give boys their sers.”

"And you will not do that?" Sansa spat.

Sandor said nothing.

"Very well then," Sansa snapped. With a glare, she rode away.

The cold bit at her face as Jonquil galloped past the Derrik and Andreas. It was the wind, she swore, that brought the tears to her eyes, each freezing before it could fall. She could hear the hoofbeats of the three destriers behind her, but Jonquil could easily outrun them. The pair sailed past the castle gates and toward the stables. Patting Jonquil as she dismounted, Sansa left her in the care of the stableboys and marched toward Winterfell.

"Stop!" roared Sandor Clegane as he drew the bay stallion up before her. Florian reared low, protesting the hard pull on his mouth.

"Get out of my way!" Sansa cried.

“I'll take the oath," he said, gray eyes flashing with fury.

Sansa looked sharply up, her eyes narrowing. “Say that so I can hear you.”

He glanced at the crowd of commons who had come out to witness the spectacle. Sansa had heard him clearly. It was to the commons he yelled, “I'll take the bloody oath!”

"You wish to be knighted?" Sansa asked, loud enough to be heard by all.

“No," he growled, "but I'm the only one who can make soldiers of your farmers. Give me a bath that stinks of 'sacred' oils, a clean shirt, and a tap on each shoulder and you'll have your Knight Master. Just don't make me stay up all night in a sept.”

A smattering of cheers went up from the commons. Sansa took a step closer to Florian. Never taking her eyes off of Sandor's, she wrapped her hands around his ankle and smiled. The hand that rested on his thigh came up toward her cheek, but then dropped. 

“Let's have it done with, then" he said, looking down at her.

“Perhaps within the next fortnight," she replied. "There things I must prepare.  We must have a feast.”

Sandor sighed.  “Must we?”

Sansa reached up and squeezed his hand.  “Yes.  Even if it doesn't matter to you, the people of Winterfell will want to celebrate.  They have so little to be glad for in the winter, will you not allow them this?”

He nodded.

Sansa moved up to take the reins at Florian's mouth. Rising up out of the saddle, Sandor dismounted, his boots making little sound as they sunk into the snow. He frowned down at Sansa, but then bowed at the waist. As she smiled, Sansa caught sight of Pyma Blackeyes standing a few paces behind Sandor. The spearwife smirked, hands on hips, and winked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Finally done with a nasty case of writer’s block. At last another chapter. I sincerely apologize for the delay, especially after all the followers and supportive comments I’ve gotten. Thank you to everyone who has said that this is one of the best SanSan fics they’ve read! I am so happy that you are enjoying it. More to come within the next few days! Much of it is already written, I promise.
> 
> A little note: I’m aware the hardening of stone by fire is a load of bollocks, but it was poetic so I kept it in. Thank you for indulging me and thank you all so very much for reading!
> 
> Another little note: All the hubub with changing chapter order way back in the day deleted some of your comments. :( I did not mean for that to happen as your feedback is wonderful and always much appreciated. If you want to write another comment to make up for your lost one, please do so, or let me know how you liked this latest chapter. Thank you so much!
> 
> June 14, 2014 - This chapter was updated in preparation for the new chapters.


	7. Chapter 7

###  **VII**

“The wool was that of my finest black ewe, m’lady,” whined the small man at the foot of the dais, “and intended as a gift for my wife for her own weaving.  How am I to replace it now?  Had this thieving—”

Sansa, from her seat in Harrold’s chair at the head of the great hall, raised a hand.  “Enough!  This fault was yours alone, Noryn.  Mistakenly selling the wool in a sack the color of all the others does not place the responsibility on the buyer.”  She gestured to the wildling woman and the gnarled man she claimed was her father.

In a basket to their left were several skeins of black thread.  The wool had been bartered fairly for three wheels of hard cheese and a surprisingly elegant, carved washboard.  The shepherd had produced only two and a half wheels, the rest having been his and his young wife’s breakfast.

“Should your wife wish to weave something in black,” Sansa continued, “send her to me after we sup tonight and she will have her thread.  In exchange, though, she must replace it when the ewe is shorn again.  Are we agreed?”

Noryn nodded fervently.  “Oh, thank you, m’lady!  She will be so pleased.”

“In addition,” she added as he made to back away, “you must make your apologies to Irika and her father for calling them unnecessarily from their own work today.”

The smile shrank from the shepherd’s face, but he bowed to the pair of wildings and begged their pardon.

“If he continues to plague you,” Sansa said to Irika’s old father once Noryn was gone, “come immediately to me.”  The man gave her a toothless smile and hobbled out on his daughter’s arm.

Sansa held back a smile as she watched them go.  A month and half again had passed since the arrival of the wildlings and all were settled in the village, though houses were still being built for the last few families.

There were fewer complaints brought before her when she held audience now, which was a blessed relief.  She rested easier, too, knowing that the wildlings were no longer struggling to find their way at Winterfell.  Pyma Blackeyes, though she still came to share a cup of wine with Sansa every so often, had little to say about her people’s woes.

It had taken two days to sweep and soap the flagstones of the great hall after the last of the wildlings were gone from it, and the lingering stench of penned-up human life had at last been banished.  The tables and benches had been returned to their places, though Sansa doubted they would accommodate all the wildlings and townsfolk at the forthcoming feast.  Perhaps if the doors were left open—

“Holding court again?”

The voice from the shadows at the back of the hall startled Sansa from her thoughts. 

Sandor Clegane, uncrossing his arms, drew away from the wall on which he had been leaning and strode toward the dais.  Though his voice was stern, Sansa knew he spoke in jest.  When she had moved her audiences from her solar to the great hall, he had taken to teasing her about acting highborn once again.

“Come to pay homage?” she asked in mocking reply.

He shrugged.  “If that’s the price of standing by your fire, I'll gladly pay it.”

Sansa stiffened.  Though she knew he spoke of the roaring blaze at the center of the hall, she was all at once reminded of what Pyma Blackeyes had said to her more than a month past: “You are kissed by fire.  And for one who is called to the flame, no dimmer light will suffice.”

Pushing the memory from her mind, Sansa made her way down to the floor, watching as Sandor removed his damp leather gloves and held out his hands to the fire.  His cloak and hair were shining with the wetness of melting snow.

A storm had been persistently coating the ground and people of Winterfell with large, downy flakes since the new moon, seven nights past.  It had driven most life indoors.  Sansa had spent those quiet days at her loom, beginning to weave the next scene of her tapestry: the death of King Robert and the execution of her father.

Where there had been so much joy in her work before, now it was becoming melancholy.  And there would be much more sorrow to depict before she could document the contentedness of her present.

“How fares the town?” she asked as she arrived at Sandor’s side.

“Haven't seen most of it in days,” he replied.  “Too much bloody snow to get past the armory and the stable.  The horses are shining they've been rubbed so many times and the blades of every tourney sword have been oiled thrice.  It’s tiresome to keep indoors.  The only one glad of it is the damned smith.”

Sansa bit back a grin as she thought of Gendry’s work.  The evening of Sandor's reluctant vow to the take the oath of knighthood, she had summoned Gendry to her solar.

_There had been few visitors that evening and it had given her some time to work at her embroidery._

_Sandor's words whirled around in her head and heart as her needle plunged into the black fabric of the tunic she had sewn for him, leaving a trail of precise, yellow stitches.  He had chosen Winterfell after all.  He would be the first knight of her house, under her own banner.  He would be at her side.  Sansa sighed, closing her eyes for a moment longer than a blink.  Her hands, mechanically continuing to stitch, drove the point of the bone needle into the tip of her finger.  She cursed, turning the frame over and popping her finger into her mouth._

_As the tang of blood touched her tongue she noticed a small red spot had bloomed on the yellow body of one of the hounds.  Fortunately it was not visible on the front of the tunic._

_“M’lady?” rumbled Gendry’s deep voice from the door._

_“Come in, come in,” she said, getting swiftly to her feet and flipping the plain black fabric over the embroidery.  She set her work into the basket beside Harrold’s chair._

_Gendry’s boots and cloak were caked with snow, but his shoulders were dry.  It had stopped snowing then._

_Sansa greeted him warmly and offered him a cup of wine, which he accepted._

_“What have you need of, m’lady?” he asked after he had drunk enough to banish the chill from his bones._

_“I wish to commission something,” she said, producing a piece of parchment from one of the pockets of her gown._

_Gendry unfolded it, looking over the crude sketch of a man.  He could read only a little, but the numbers scrawled beside the figure were known to him.  He raised his brows as he looked back up at Sansa._

_“It has been many years since you have truly been able to practice your craft, Gendry,” she said.  “Iron beams, door hinges, and cooking pots are necessary, but your real gift, as I recall, is armor.”  She held out a heavy purse.  “I am prepared to pay for your best work and for your silence.  A gift must be a surprise, mustn’t it?”_

_Taking the purse, Gendry’s eyes widened.  Inside were gold dragons and silver stags.  At Winterfell, money was rarely exchanged unless materials had to be purchased from the South.  He looked back down at the page.  “These sizes…this can only be for one man.  What need does a brother of a Seven have for a full suit and greatsword?”_

_"I'm surprised that you have not already heard," said Sansa. "Sandor is to be Winterfell’s Knight Master.  War is coming and this castle needs good fighting men.”_

_To her amazement, Gendry broke into a toothy smile.  “He is staying then.  Good.  I can fight well enough, but I was not raised with a lance in my hand.  Winterfell is a noble seat.  It needs more than bastard with a hammer to train its guards…and someday your sons, m’lady.  His armor will be as fine as any in the South.”_

_“It is not to be tourney plate,” Sansa cautioned.  “It must be strong and light, fit for fighting in snow.”_

_“So it will be,” Gendry replied, though his eyes were scanning the page.  “Have you got a piece of charcoal, m’lady?”  With the small nub she gave him, he began to clothe the figure the seamstress had drawn after Sandor had been measured for his new clothing.  Sansa watched as the armor he would wear took shape._

_“I’ll make it of polished, plain steel,” Gendry described as he drew.  “It should reflect the light.  The brightness of it against the snow will hide him or blind his enemies, even when there is little sun.  Do you wish me to make something for his horse as well?”_

_Sansa smiled at his eagerness.  “If you find the hours.”_

_“The beams for the brothers are nearly finished, but I will work at night if you prefer.”_

_“That is for you to decide.”_

_Gendry nodded, bending to his work again.  At the edge of the page he began to draw out a shield, rounded at the top and tapering to a sharp point at the bottom.  “What sigil will it bear, m’lady?”_

_Sansa chewed her lip.  On Sandor’s tunic she had intended to make the hounds of Clegane sleek, as they had always appeared on his family’s banner, but somehow the first had come out larger and shaggier, as were direwolves._

_Retrieving the embroidery, she handed it to Gendry.  “Can you make it like this, with three?”_

_He grinned.  “Easily.  The colors?”_

_“Yellow and black, as they are here.  He will be a sworn sword of Winterfell, but he is a Clegane still.”_

_“And the sword?”_

_Sansa bent to retrieve the parcel she had placed beside the basket.  Slowly unwrapping it, she revealed the jeweled hilt of Harrold’s sword.  Sadness washed over her as she looked upon its shining Valyrian steel blade.  It had been a gift from Petyr Baelish to the bridegroom.  Despite its finery, Harrold had told her that he wished to be buried with his lance—the horseman’s weapon—rather than his sword.  And so she had done.  As she handed the sword to Gendry she sent a prayer to the Stranger that her husband might be resting easy._

_If Gendry disapproved of her surrendering Lord Hardyng’s weapon, he did not show it.  Instead, he simply said, “A fine blade, m’lady, but only a longsword.  It is nearly eight inches too short.”_

_“Melt it down and add this to it,” Sansa said, producing a scabbarded dagger the length of her thigh.  When she drew it, its blade glimmered as well.  “Lord Baelish gave this to me as a wedding present.  It should be enough.”_

_Gendry looked it over.  “The blade is thick, the steel true.  It will do.”_

_“How long will it all take?” Sansa asked._

_“Seven days if it was all I worked on, but with my other duties…a fortnight at the very least.”_

_“Send word to me when it is finished.”_

_“Yes, m’lady.”  Gendry turned to go, but hesitated as he reached the door.  “What of the helm?” he asked._

_“I'll leave that to the armorer,” Sansa replied._

Gendry had sent word that morning that the armor was finished, the snowy days giving him the time he required to complete it.  Though she wished to see what he had crafted, Sansa had told him to present it first to Sandor on the morrow, the morning of the day he was to be knighted. 

Three days before that she had announced the feast in his honor.  The commons had burst into cheers, though they had been eagerly awaiting the announcement. Sandor himself had remained at the bench among his guardsmen, though many of them clapped him on the back.

The preparations began the following morning, despite the storm.  Sansa had little to do with much of it, instead letting her people enjoy themselves.  She was given the menu for the feast, but she did not bother to look at it before she sent her approval.  The only task she had done herself was finish the embroidery on Sandor’s black tunic and give it to Brother Lysinder to present to him along with the rest of the new clothing she had ordered made.  This they had arranged a few days after the word of the coming knighthood had made the rounds of the castle.

_No fire had been lit in the hearth of the weaving room, so Sansa placed a few logs and some small twigs into it and lit them with the candle she had carried down from her chambers._

_The women with whom she usually wove only arrived after supper when their other duties were done, so the smaller looms were unoccupied.  Sansa sat down on the stool of one of them.  It had been strung with stands of fine wool dyed gray.  She had decided to craft another tunic for her Knight Master, this one in the gray and white of House Stark._

_The creaking of the door startled her, making her drop the shuttle.  She cursed silently, hoping she had not cracked the wood._

_"My lady,” said Brother Lysinder, striding over.  His hands were tucked into the sleeves of his homespun robes.  “I have not ever seen you away from your own loom.  Surely you haven’t finished your tapestry…”_

_"No,” Sansa laughed, running her fingers over the shuttle.  It was thankfully undamaged.  “Certainly not.”_

_Lysinder_ tsked _.  “Then why do you labor on common clothes…”  His voice trailed off and his brows rose as he glanced over the fabric pooled at her feet.  “Ah, you are making something for yourself.”_

_She smiled, but shook her head, slowly working the pedals again._

_"A gift, then,” said Lysinder.  “This pattern is far too intricate for common wear.  It is a sturdy weave, though.  It will make an elegant, but versatile tunic for a Knight Master."_

_Sansa reached over to produce the black tunic. It lay atop the trunk her woodworkers had fashioned to hold Sandor's clothes.  She ran her hand over the three direwolves that charged across the breast._ _"Brother, may I request something of you?"_

_"Anything, my lady."_

_She held out the tunic. "I would like you to bring this to him on the day of the feast."_

_"Will you not deliver them yourself, my lady?” the old septon asked, taking it from her.  “Such tender labor should not go unacknowledged.”_

_“Is it not you that is helping him bathe and dress?” Sansa said._

_“Ah, yes,” Lysinder chuckled.  “And it was quite resentfully he gave permission.  There will be no prayers said aloud, but I will be thinking them.  Though it seems that Sandor has always had the favor of the Warrior, it does no harm to appease the gods. For most men, the bath and dressing is a time to consider what trials the gods will lay before them once they are made knights.”_

_Sansa nodded.  She doubted that Sandor was as indifferent as he seemed.  In the pit of her stomach she felt the familiar ache of fear that despite swearing an oath that would to bind him to House Stark and to Winterfell, he would desert her as he had the Lannisters and the King.  What meaning, after all, did words said on bended knee have to a man who had sworn many things and broken all of those vows?_

_Lysinder continued, as if hearing Sansa's thoughts aloud, “To Sandor, no god makes his fate.  It is before_ you _he stands a fortnight hence, my lady, laying himself at your feet, not those of the gods he does not care a copper for.  Such an oath is stronger in his heart.”_

_“He has the choice to do as he will,” Sansa said, quiet, “whether he is my bannerman or not.”_

_"The life of a sworn sword is no longer his own, my lady,” Lysinder said, shaking his head.  “Sandor knew that full well when he chose to become a knight of Winterfell.”  He traced the embroidery across the breast of the tunic with his fingertips.  “As did you when you gave him your own sigil as his.”  Reaching out and touching her arm, he said, “Do you not see that his choice was you?”_

_Sansa answered, “Yes,” and for the first time believed it._

She was saddened that the feast coincided with the departure of the brothers of the Quiet Isle.  The iron brackets and beams, as well as the large panels of glass that would make up their winter gardens had been completed and packed into two sleighs.  Four of the stable master’s lads would drive the teams of horses south and then back again to Winterfell.  A party of guardsmen would accompany them on the day after the feasting was done, leaving the castle oddly empty.

Turning back to Sandor, Sansa asked, “How do you fare?”

His hair was tied back with a length of fraying cloth, allowing the firelight to illuminate the craggy scars, but also the smooth, even sharp lines of the opposite cheek and jaw.

He raised his brows, questioning.

“You have not reconsidered taking the oath?”

“No,” he snapped, frowning down at her.

“A jest, a jest,” she laughed, her hands raised defensively.

“Hmph,” was the only reply, but clearly a disapproving one.

She continued, undaunted, “I’ve had rooms in the castle prepared for you.  If you will have them, of course.”

Sandor had continued to sleep in the barracks with the septons even after he had eschewed his novice’s robes, but the place of a knight was in the castle.  When Eddard and Catelyn Stark had lived in Winterfell, their men-at-arms and guests had had their residences in the west wing, but as that part of the castle was still in ruins, Sansa had chosen for Sandor the rooms that had once belonged to Jon Snow.

They had been simply furnished, with a few wooden chairs, a rug by the hearth, and a chest for his clothing.  The bed, though, was wide and long, the mattress filled with feather down rather than straw.

“Could I refuse?” he asked, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

_A knight’s life is no longer his own_.  “No,” Sansa laughed.  “Shall I have your belongings sent for before your bath is drawn tonight?”

“Don’t bother.  I’m wearing everything that belongs to me.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, but managed to catch the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“I've named Alan Stone captain of the guard.  He’s the best with a bow and sword.  Has half a head for strategy, too.”

Alan, a bastard from the Vale, had followed Harrold and his young bride to the North in order to make his name beyond the shadow of his father, one of the favorite lords of Lady Lysa Arryn.  He was capable, as Sandor said, and loyal.

Sansa nodded.  “I am glad of it.  I will seat him at the head table at the feast tomorrow.”

“No.  His place is with his men.  Make him stand if you want to honor him, but he will stay with them.”

“Do you wish to remain with your squires, then?”

He looked at her down the length of his nose.  “My place is at your side.”

Before she could reply, Sansa heard a call from the servant’s door at the back of the dais.  “M’lady?”  Lissen’s voice.  “Your bath is ready.”

“Best flit away, little bird,” said Sandor as he pulled his gloves back on.

As she watched him walk away, down the length of the great hall, she imagined that he wore the white cloak again.  He had promised to protect her the night Blackwater Bay burned.  Though not an oath sworn before a hall of lords and ladies, it was one he was keeping.

* * * * *

 “It will be strange when they've gone,” Sansa mused as she paced naked before the fire in her chamber.  The wetness of her body and hair had long since gone, but she was too restless to sit.

“The kitchen girls will mourn the loss of Brother Erik,” Lissen said, her voice muffled as she rooted through Sansa’s wardrobe.  She knew her lady’s mood and had given up trying to sooth her.

Sansa had ridden out early that morning, spent an hour grooming Jonquil after, heard grievances, and had tried to weave, but her mind would not settle.  Tonight they were to feast in honor of a man she could never have hoped to believe would have come back into her life.  Yet, now he seemed an inextricable part of Winterfell.  His presence had changed things, but they felt as natural as the change of seasons.  She found that each night she said a pray of thanks to gods for bringing the Brothers of the Quiet Isle to her.

“As will our table,” she said to Lissen.  “The wildlings have been good at bagging birds, but no one is quite so reliable for bringing down stags as Brother Erik.”

“He fancied you for a while, m’lady,” Lissen said as she approached, gown in hand.  “Had I been so long without a man to warm my bed, I wouldn't have thought twice about a tumble with him.”

“It do not intend to share what the kitchen girls have had,” Sansa said, more curtly than she had intended, as she stepped into her small clothes.  “He’s hardly more than a boy anyway.”

Lissen smiled slyly.  “You’d rather have a right and proper man, then?”

Sansa shot her a look, her constant insistence that Sansa find a lover growing tiresome.  Unbidden, the small smile Sandor Clegane had worn in the great hall earlier came to her mind.  She wondered if Brother Lysinder had finished dressing him, how the three direwolves would look upon his breast.  A smile eased across her lips.

“Hmm?” she asked, realizing that Lissen had been speaking to her.

“Your gown, m’lady.”

It had been made for this night. The first new gown Sansa had had in nigh on three years.  The gray chemise was soft linen, the sleeves tight along her arms and falling to the floor at her wrists.  Holding out her arms, she allowed Lissen to slide the gown over it.  Opalescent white silk engulfed her.  The neckline of the gown was cut to emulate the peaks and curls of a snowdrift, each one cresting at her shoulders.  The bodice was swirled with pearls and laced tight at her back.  The inner skirts were the light gray of the winter skies while the outer were pure white.  Lissen arranged the sleeves of the chemise so that they fell with the white ones over them.

“I will sorely miss Brother Lysinder’s council,” Sansa admitted as she was guided to a stool so that her hair could be brushed.  “Winterfell is in need of a maester, but I fear the Citadel would not send anyone if I requested it; it is a dangerous journey.”

“Or maybe there’s a daring young one who yearns in his heart for adventure,” Lissen teased as she worked.

Sansa laughed.

“I’ve been smelling the roasting mutton all day,” said Lissen, settling a circlet of beaten silver onto her lady's head.  “I can hardly wait to taste it.”

Sansa’s own stomach growled in agreement.  “I should hope we have enough.  We couldn’t slaughter more than ten of the herd, else we would have none for next season.”

“There’s much more than just the meat, m’lady.  Bread, vegetables from the glass gardens, cheese, and eggs.  I’ve even heard that there are lemon cakes!”

“Oh, it’s been years since I’ve had a lemon cake,” Sansa sighed.

“Ah, there!” said Lissen, stepping back.  “Finished.”  Her relieved smile faded as she looked Sansa over.  “Oh, my lady.”

Sansa reached a hand up to the elegant plait that held the circlet in place.  “What is it?  Should I tie it up after all?”

“No, m’lady!” Lissen breathed.  “You look like a queen.  Queen in the North.”

Sansa’s brows knit as she looked at her reflection in the bronze.  Her hair fell to her waist in thick waves.  The circlet did look a bit like a crown, though one that was far too simple to serve any queen in the South.  Yet, as Lissen said, it seemed to fit a Northern lady, who had no use for jewels and intricate metalwork in the depths of winter.

“Is it strange that I feel like this?” Sansa asked, turning away from the bronze.  “I have never purported to sit a throne, but we are so isolated from King’s Landing during the winter…”

“The wildlings call you ‘queen,’” said Lissen.

She had heard them.  “They are unfamiliar with our customs.”

“Others have agreed with them.  Those from the Eyrie.”

Sansa balked.

Lissen met her eyes, a smile touching her lips.  “Many have said that you are the kindest, most gentle, and wisest lady they have known.  They would rather have you as their queen than some girl-child they'll never see.”

“Queen Margaery is three years my senior.  And the Targaryen girl...well, I'd best not speak of her now.”

The smile broadened.  “Makes no matter to us commons, my lady.  Winterfell has always cared for these lands more than anyone in King’s Landing.  We owe our fealty to  _you_  and no one else.”

Sansa took a deep breath.  Squeezing Lissen’s hands, she said, “You are so good, dear.  Now, we had best go down before we are missed.”

* * * * *

When they arrived, the great hall was already filled with the voices of Winterfell.  It, too, was filled with their bodies.  The benches were groaning beneath the weight and those who could not find places to sit simply stood. The massive doors at the end of the hall were thrown open.  The wind was not as bitter as it had been in the past days, though without it the warmth of the bodies in a close hall would likely have been unbearable.

Lissen went quickly down to join Gendry while Sansa waited a moment in the shadows of the servants door before stepping out into the hall.  A great cheer went up when she appeared.  She made her way to the center of a dais and looked out over the faces of her people.

The septons of the Quite Isle stood in a neat row on the floor to her left.  The guardsmen, in ranks, wore their mail and carried spears tipped with dragonglass.  The craftsmen of the village, their wives, and the castle women sat along the benches.

The wildlings, Pyma Blackeyes with them, huddled near the back of the hall by the open doors.  Not all of them had appeared, but there were more than Sansa had expected.

Her brows knit when she could not find Sandor Clegane among the many gathered before her.  His squires, though, were in their finest tunics, carried daggers at their waists, and stood at the edge of the dais, as she had promised they would.

“Good people of Winterfell,” cried Sansa, raising her hands for silence.  “Welcome to this, the first meal to be shared together in this hall since the arrival of the Free Folk of the North.  It is a two-fold celebration, one of sadness and one of joy.  Of course, we honor those who are just beginning to make their homes at Winterfell, whose children play alongside those of all who rode with me from the Vale.  But we also honor the Brothers of the Quiet Isle, who on the morrow will be leaving us to return to their home in the South.  It will be a sorrowful parting, but tonight we celebrate the happiness of their presence here now.”

Many of the townsfolk—those the septons had healed and prayed with—cheered.  It was Brother Lysinder who silenced them with a nod and a wave.

“In the years since we came here from the Vale of Arryn,” Sansa continued, “we have lived without many of the traditions of our fathers, but today we shall adopt one of them again: there  _will_  be knights in Winterfell.”

The roar that rose from the floor echoed throughout the hall, unable to be quieted until the guardsmen stuck their spears thrice upon the flagstones.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sansa called, “Sandor Clegane, come forward.”

He had been waiting in the shadows at the back of the hall.  As he stepped into the light, though, the armor Gendry had made for him flashed resplendently.  His black locks—washed and combed—brushed the tops of his pauldrons.

Under shining greaves, poleyns, and cuisses he wore a pair of heavy leather boots that laced up to the backs of his thighs.  A cloak lined of red fox fur fell from his shoulders.  His sword hung in a scabbard across his back.

Sansa’s eyes were drawn from it, though, to the helm he carried under his left arm.  It was a snarling dog, but the metal was shaped to appear like shaggy, thick fur rather than the glossy hide of a hunting hound: he would ride to battle with the face of a vengeful direwolf.

The commons made way for him as he strode toward the dais.  At the foot of the steps, he stopped and bowed.  Sansa’s breath caught when he drew his sword and offered her the hilt.  The blade glimmered as though tendrils of blue and black fire snapped across it.  The greatsword was nearly the width of her hand at the base of the hilt and tapered to a deadly point several feet down.  The hilt itself was simply made, with a straight crossguard and a handle long enough for three of her hands.  It was topped with a polished orb of dragonglass.

“My sword, Wintersbane, is yours, Lady Stark,” Sandor proclaimed, loudly enough to be heard by all.

_Wintersbane_.  The name made Sansa’s skin prickle, though she felt warmth down her spine rather than a chill.  Taking hold of it with both hands, she held it point down.

“Kneel.”

Sandor fell first upon one knee and then the other, favoring his scarred thigh.

Holding the sword close to her breast, Sansa looked down and met his upturned eyes.  She held them for a moment, searching for any sign of hesitation.  He did not blink for the duration, allowing her to study him.  His face was solemn, but neither hard nor cold.  Sansa found herself smiling.  His brows went up.  She forced herself to look back up and address the crowd as well as the man at her feet.

“Sandor Clegane, you have chosen to forsake your former masters and allies and to give your sword to House Stark and the people of Winterfell.  Do you swear that you will serve them, defend them, and care for them so long as you should call Winterfell your home?”

“I swear it,” he rumbled.

“Do you swear never to take up arms against House Stark or its bannermen so long as you call Winterfell your home?”

“I swear it.”

Sansa lifted Wintersbane, hoping desperately her arms would not shake, and tapped each of Sandor’s shoulders in turn.  The blade hummed as it touched the steel of his pauldrons.

“Then I name you Ser Sandor Clegane, knight of Winterfell and sworn sword of House Stark.”

“Sworn sword of  _Sansa_ Stark,” he proclaimed.

She looked down at him again, and was surprised to find him smiling.

“Sansa Stark!” cried a member of the crowd.  It sounded like Gendry.  “Ser Sandor!  House Stark!”  Others joined in until all the voices in the Great Hall echoed him.

“Rise and take your sword, ser,” said Sansa over the din.  She offered the hilt with both hands, one unable to bear its weight.

Sandor closed a mailed fist above hers and lowered the sword until the point touched the ground.  Leaning only slightly on it, he got to his feet.  Three steps below Sansa, he was but half a hand taller than her.

“Don’t call me that,” he said.  “I’ve a name.  Use it…my lady.”

“Sandor,” she said quietly.  Her heart was beating so loudly in her ears she could hardly hear her own voice.

“Sansa,” he rasped, “are you going to let me have my sword, or are you planning to take up arms?”

Embarrassed, she let go of the hilt she had not realized she was still holding.  “It bears a noble name.  Did you choose it?”

He nodded.  “The wildlings call the Valyrian ‘dragonsteel.’  And fire melts even this damnable Northern snow.”

Sansa watched as he sheathed Wintersbane again, the hall seeming to darken as he did.

From behind him came his squires, requesting to help him remove his armor for the feast.  Sansa felt a tightening in her chest as she imagined the feel of the buckles beneath her own fingers. 

Her mother had once described the return of Eddard, then her new husband, from the battlefield.  She had sent his squire away, choosing to wipe the blood from his plate and remove it herself.  Her hands had been shaking, she told her eldest daughter, as she had only been alone with him on their wedding night, but he had stood quietly and guided her when she was unsure.  They had been strangers when she had pressed a chaste kiss to his lips upon his return, but by the time he stood bare before her, they were no longer.

Pushing away the dull ache of longing, Sansa held out her hand and said, “Go quickly, for the feast cannot begin without you.”

Closing his gloved fingers around hers, Sandor made a half-bow as he pressed his lips to her knuckles.  His footfalls were heavy as he strode up the stairs beside her and led the three squires out the servants’ door.

* * * * * 

It did not take him long to reappear, though it was after Sansa had summoned the septons to the dais and presented each with a gift.  She gave new pairs of boots to two of the brothers, books from her meager library to three others, seedling citrus trees to the two who had worked tirelessly in Winterfell’s glass gardens, and new cooking pots to those who prepared the meals during their journeys.

To Brother Erik she had given a new hunting bow, longer and more powerful, and to Brother Lysinder she had given her first tapestry, a small work depicting Winterfell before it had burned.

“I cannot accept this, my lady,” he had protested.  “It belongs here, where you can look upon it and remember your family.”

“If the gods are good,” said Sansa, “I will look upon Winterfell each day until I am entombed beside my father in the crypt.  Take it and remember us fondly.”

Though she had told the old septon that a place at her table would always be held for him, he had described a dream he had been having for several years, one in which he saw himself being made High Septon of the Quiet Isle.

“And no man lives two years past his ascension to that position,” he chuckled.  “I fear I will not come to Winterfell again.”

Sansa’s eyes stung with tears as she kissed his cheek and bid him go to table and take his place at her left hand.

When Sandor entered, she felt a surge of warmth from her cheeks to her stomach.  The tunic looked well on him, but it was the length of blue silk ribbon tied around his sword arm that caught her eye.

As he strode over to her, his gaze followed hers.  Shrugging, he said, “I have your favor tonight.”

“You do,” she replied, holding out her hand.  He placed his into it, allowing her to raise it high above her head.  The commons cheered as hand-in-hand they took up their places at the high table.

Food and wine—unwatered—flowed freely after that.  As Sansa ate the venison stew, she raised her glass to Brother Erik, who nodded to her.  The bread of her trencher was thick and crusty.  The mutton tasted as good as it had smelled.  The vegetables from the glass gardens were crisp and delicious, but it was the lemon cakes that Sansa enjoyed most.

She was reminded of the feast that followed the Hand’s Tourney in King’s Landing, so many years ago.  King Robert had been drunk by the second joust and sleeping in his chair by the second course at supper.  Her father, Lord Eddard, and her mother, Lady Catelyn, had eaten with slow and practiced formality.  Arya had spilled the contents of meat pie down the front of her gown as she tried to eat it off the point of her knife.  Sansa had tried unsuccessfully to catch the eye of her betrothed, the monstrous Joffrey.  The only pair of eyes she had met had been steely gray.

She had looked away from Sandor then, still terrified of the feral Hound, champion of the tourney.  As she caught his gaze now, she smiled and held it.

Throughout the meal they had been conversing about the business of the castle: what guards would make the best marksmen, what weapons the armory lacked, how another one of the destrier mares was pregnant and the squires were disappointed that they had to ride the palfreys instead.  They spoke only of mundane things devoid of the courtesies and polite nothingness Sansa had been taught to discuss at table.

She had, of course, given her full attention to Lysinder, but had then turned back to Sandor as she remembered that she had intended to ask him about how many guardsmen could be spared from patrol to work on the walls once construction resumed.  His counsel was simple, but always good, and she found that she spoke more freely with him than anyone else in Winterfell.

“Been a long time since I’ve eaten so well,” he observed, wiping his knife clean and sliding it back into the scabbard at his waist.  There was nothing left of his meal save the lemon cake he had been presented with.  His wine cup, Sansa noticed, was barely touched.

“And nor will we again for a while,” she said.  “I fear we’ve nearly exhausted the larder.”

“It was you who wanted a feast.”

“And I will happily eat porridge and stale bread for the coming months, if that is the price lemon cakes.”

Sandor slid his plate over to her.  “Then have my share.  I saw you eyeing it.”

Drawing her own knife, Sansa cut the sweet in half.  Taking one, she pushed the plate back.  He took the other, popping it into his mouth.  She followed suit, enjoying the last taste she would enjoy for years, perhaps.  When she opened her eyes again, she found that Sandor was watching her.

“Them in King’s Landing,” he said, “they wouldn’t know you now.”

“I should hope not,” she said, taking a sip of wine.  “I was a stupid fool then, as I was so often reminded.”

His eyes darkened.  “Children deserve to be foolish, but most never the get the chance.”

Sansa knew he was remembering what his own brother had done to him, though her thoughts turned to Joffrey as he forced her to look up into the vacant eyes of her father’s head on its spike atop the walls of the Red Keep.  When Ser Meryn Trant had stuck her, it was Sandor who had wiped the blood from her lips.

She slid her hand over his forearm.  “I was no longer a child the day I set foot in King’s Landing, something that only you taught me with words.  The others used their fists.”

Though he said nothing, she could feel the tightening of his muscles beneath her fingers.

She said, “I am glad every day that you were there with me, and that you are here now,” and the tension eased. 

* * * * *

Long after the feasting had ended, the revelers had stayed to listen to Jonas, the master stonemason, sing.  Sansa could barely keep her eyes open by the time he had finished, though he had done wonderfully, captivating even the wildlings.  Brother Lysinder, she noticed, was snoring lightly at her side.  She was loathe to wake him, but nor could she leave him.

“I’ll see to him,” said Sandor, getting stiffly to his feet.

 “No, I will take him.”

Sansa was surprised to see Erik making his way over to the where the old septon sat.  He wore an affectionate smile as he lifted Lysinder by the arm and helped him to shuffle toward the servant’s door.

“Goodnight Lady Sansa, Ser Sandor.”

It seemed Erik had finally begun to find his way, as Lysinder had said he would.  The kitchen girls certainly would be heartbroken, but Sansa was happy to know that the Lysinder would be well cared for on his journey south.

“Will you be looking to find your bed as well?” Sandor asked after they had gone.

“Yes,” Sansa sighed, “though I’m not sure I won’t simply curl up in a corner on the way.”

The edges of his mouth turned up.  “I’ll see that you don’t.”

She laughed and stood to follow him.  Taking a torch, he led the way through mostly empty passages, save a pair of lovers embracing in the shadows.  Sansa was startled by the quick reaction her body had to their muffled moans.  Her nipples tightened almost painfully and blood pooled between her legs.  Hurrying after Sandor, she tried to keep the flush from her cheeks.

By the time they arrived outside her chambers, she had thankfully regained some of her composure.  Sandor placed the torch he had been carrying into the sconce beside her door.

“Did you enjoy your feast?” she teased around a yawn.

 “Well enough.”

 “I know it is not what you would have preferred—”

“Did it please you?” Sandor interrupted, though not forcefully.

“It did,” she replied, smiling.  Half-asleep already, she let her eyes droop closed.  At first, she thought she had dreamed the touch, it was so light, but her mind could not have so vividly created the rasp and warmth of his calloused fingertips against her cheek.  When she reached out to him, though, he was gone.

A quiet, “Good,” and the echo of his boots against the stone was all she heard as she stood alone in the light of the single torch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not actually sure if the Sandor/handkerchief scene was actually in the books or just in the show (I don’t have my copies here with me at school), but I left it in because it was definitely an awesome part of Season 1 whether or not it was in the original text. Thanks for reading, as always, and I promise you will be rewarded for your patience with this slow burner very soon!
> 
> June 16, 2014 - This chapter was revised and updated in preparation for the new chapters.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 16, 2014 - Hello to everyone who's stuck with this story, whether from the very beginning to new readers. I've spent a long two years in graduate school, but I am so very happy to announce that I'm back, with pen in hand! I know that this is a tremendous pain in the ass for all of you, but I've done some rather significant revisions of these first eight chapters. None of the major events are changed, of course, but a couple of small scenes were added and the timing of certain things has been changed. IN THIS CHAPTER: I've removed the love scene. It hasn't gone away, of course, but I've decided it needed to come later. The original plan was to finish this story in 10 chapters, but now I see there's a lot more of Sansa's story to tell. I'll be updating again very, very soon!

###  **VIII**

The knock at Sansa’s door was short but insistent.  “Come,” she said, swinging her cloak over her shoulders.  The gown she wore beneath had once been one of Lysa Arryn’s finest, one Alayne had always admired.  The silk—the color of summer blue skies—was too sheer for the bitterness of winter, so she had sent it to the seamstresses to be lined with soft wool.  They had trimmed the square neckline and sleeves with white fox fur as well.  It was too lovely for most days at Winterfell, but today she was attending a tourney.

In keeping with the promise she had made to Sandor’s three squires, she was to watch them fight a mock-melee.  She had requested, though, that they exhibit their riding and archery as well, as they would in a proper tourney.

“Are we to have a joust as well?” Sandor had huffed, arms crossed over his chest.

Sansa had raised a brow at him and replied, “And who would ride against you?”

As a prize for the best display of skill, she offered a place at her right side at supper and single kiss.  The blue ribbon of her favor, she assumed, would also go the victor.

Derrik, the eldest, had the best odds, she knew, but Sandor had told her that Andreas had quite the hand for the mace.  His father was a stonemason, a broad man whose strength could been seen from ten paces.  His son, only ten, was already starting to resemble him.

“He'll grow the biggest,” Sandor had said as they watched Andreas swing the weapon.  “Shoulders like a bull already.  By twenty he'll be able to crush a man’s chest with that…through the plate.”

The thought of such young boys going to war reminded her all too much of Robb, who had been barely a man when he had ridden at the head of an army.   _Protect them, Mother_ , she prayed as she fastened the clasp of her cloak.   _Though their fates will soon lay in the hands of the Warrior, keep them safe now so that they may know manhood._

The door of her chamber swung open and Sandor strode through, ducking his head.  His boots and the hem of his cloak were darkened by melting snow, but his shoulders were dry.

“They're ready to begin,” he said, one hand resting on the pommel of the dagger at his waist.  He rarely wore Wintersbane, though Sansa knew that he trained with the blade each morning before the rest of the castle had woken.  As she often rose before the sun, she would stand at her window and watch him for a time.  His footwork gave him trouble—the wounded leg forcing him to shorten his strides—but he swung the sword with the same elegance she remembered from the Hand’s Tourney.   _Guide his blade in battle_ , she would pray to the Warrior _, and guide him always back to Winterfell_.

“How are our brave combatants?” she asked, pulling on her doeskin gloves.  “Fraught with nerves before their first tourney?”

The corner of Sandor’s mouth turned up.  “A little.  The fighting they're used to, but their blood’s up over the prize.”  His eyes darted over her, from the gown to the intricate plait Lissen had woven into her hair.

The maid had been pleased to dress it so finely.  “You'll not lose  _this_ ribbon,” she had proclaimed as her deft fingers tied the silk into the braid.

“It’s not a hundred gold dragons,” Sansa replied, thinking of the purse he had won for saving the life of Loras Tyrell.

“No,” he said with a shrug, “but what’s gold to them?  Nothing but metal.  They may be boys still, but even they know enough to want a kiss.”

Sansa felt the heat rising in her cheeks and chest, but she refused to look demurely down as she might have as a girl.  She studied Sandor’s gray eyes, hard with some feeling she could not identify.

“Shall we go?” she asked after a moment.  He nodded and followed her out into the passage.

In the weeks since he had been knighted, he had been often by her.  Though she still sat in Harrold’s chair in the great hall to hear grievances, she found that she no longer had to do so each day.  Instead, she went out into the village.  Before, she had always gone alone, but when Sandor had begun appear at her elbow as she walked from the castle, she had not sent him away.  Though he was usually a quiet onlooker as she visited her people, he was greeted by them as warmly as she.

He did not offer his arm as they went together down to the yard, but he walked close to her, his arm occasionally brushing her sleeve.

Jonquil, saddled and brushed until she shone, was waiting outside the castle when they arrived.  One of the grooms was holding the lead tied to her halter; she wore no bit and bridle.

“Good day, m’lady,” the young man said, inclining his head.  “Lissen said I was to have your mare ready so ‘at you wouldn't spoil your dress in the wet.”

Sansa smiled.  The thought had crossed her mind as well.  “Thank you…”

“Evin, m’lady.”

"My thanks to you, Evin.”

He grinned up at her as she stroked a hand down Jonquil’s cheek in greeting.  The mare rubbed her nose against Sansa’s shoulder.  Turning to the stirrup, she frowned down at her skirts, trying to see how to lift them clear so she could mount.  The skirt of her riding habit was easily tucked into the thick belt she wore over leather breeches, but the wool-lined silk of her gown was far more cumbersome.

“Wait,” said Sandor, his voice rumbling against her back.  Brushing her cloak out of the way, he took hold of her waist and lifted her until she could get her left foot in the stirrup.  He held her steady as she swung her right leg over Jonquils hindquarters and slid her foot into the iron.  She did what she could to settle her skirts and cloak.

“You can go now, boy,” Sandor said to the groom as he went to Jonquil’s head and took the lead.  She blinked her dark eyes at him, sighing happily as he rubbed her between the ears.  With a quick nod and “Yes, ser,” the young groom trotted off toward the stables.

Sandor looked back at Sansa, questioning.  She smiled and nodded, and he led Jonquil toward the training yard.

The few commons who were about called out to her.  “Blessed be, m’lady!  If you aren't the loveliest thing I've seen in a fortnight.”  “M’lady, what a fine gown!  What’s the occasion?”  Without reins to hold, Sansa waved in reply.  Jonquil pricked her ears forward and nickered at the attention.

When they arrived in the yard, Sansa saw that a wooden platform had been raised beside it.  It bore a single chair, a bearskin folded on its seat.

“Who arranged this?” Sansa asked, amused.

“Your little maid,” Sandor replied as he brought Jonquil to a halt beside the platform.  “She’s a good mind.  There’s hot stones for your feet under that pelt.”

“I'll miss her in a few months,” she sighed.  Lissen had told her just the night before that she was with child.

_“I’ll serve you as long as I can manage, m’lady,” she said, “but when the babe comes…”  She touched her belly, the ghost of a smile on her lips._

_“Of course, dear,” Sansa replied, pushing away the sadness that stabbed at her heart when she thought of the children she had wished to bear Harrold.  “I am so glad for you, and Gendry, too.”_

_Lissen beamed.  “He’s as proud as a peacock, m’lady.  I do hope this first is a boy so he has a son to teach his craft.”_

_“If you wish,” said Sansa, “I will see to it that he is trained and made a knight.”_

_“_ My _son, a knight?  My mam would never have believed it, gods guard her.  Bless you, m’lady!”_

Placing her hand on Sandor’s shoulder, Sansa slid down from Jonquil’s back.  He caught her around the waist again and placed her onto the platform.

“Tomas will the take her back to the stables,” he said, patting Jonquil’s neck.  “She’ll not stand for the noise of combat.”  He called for the Tomas.  All three squires appeared, but the youngest stepped forward.  Sandor told him his duty and that he “should be quick about it.”  The boy set off at a jog, tugging Jonquil along.  When she broke into a trot, he fell behind and nearly got dragged the rest of the way to the stables.

“You go as well,” Sandor said to Derrik and Andreas.  “Bring your own mounts.”

Sansa smiled as she watched them scamper away.  Uncovering the hot stones, she placed them on the wood at the foot of the chair.  She sat and settled the bearskin around her legs.  The heat began to warm her toes immediately.  She would have to find a gift for Lissen.  Perhaps something for the babe.

It was not long before she heard the slap of hooves against the wet snow.  The three squires, mounted on a trio of Harrold’s beloved hunting horses, came trotting toward the yard.  Their seats had improved, she saw, and each carried a bow in his left hand.  Derrik, who led the column, sent his chestnut mare into a canter as they entered the yard.  The others followed, each saluting her as they rode past.  Sandor stood in the corner of the yard, watching closely.

The squires performed a few circles and changes of lead before slowing their horses to a walk.  Sansa applauded as they dismounted.  A pair of grooms came to take their mounts.

“Lady Sansa,” proclaimed Andreas, his shoulder back and head high, “we would shoot for you.”

“I will see it,” she replied, holding back a smile.  The squires were so very formal.  It was endearing and she did not wish to spoil it by laughing.

Each boy took his turn, though it was Tomas who had the best eye.  His arrows did not penetrate the target as deeply—he was so much smaller than the others—but they struck always near the center.

After, the boys donned thick quilted tunics and half-helms before picking up their weapons for the melee.  Andreas, she was pleased to see, was armed with a wooden-headed mace.  It was lighter than what he would someday carry into battle, but it would not do as much damage should it strike one of the others.  Tomas and Derrik carried blunted tourney swords.

Once they had saluted Sansa, they went to stand in separate corners of the yard.  Sandor stood in the one closest to her, his arms folded over his chest.

“On your command,” he said.

She nodded.  The squires went charging toward each other, yelling challenges and boyish battle cries.  Young Tomas did not last very long, Andreas knocking his blade from his hand.  Sandor called him to the side.  In a true tourney melee, a man did not go out until he fell or bled, but Sansa was relieved that being disarmed was enough for the squires.  Tomas now sat on the lowest rail of the fence, calling out encouragement to his comrades.

Sansa was duly impressed by the display.  Sandor had chosen the boys only a few months before, but already they had improved tremendously.  All were of low birth, but she would be proud one day to hear their oaths of knighthood, as she had Sandor's.

“Watch your guard, Andreas!” he called.  “Stop hesitating, Derrik!”

Following the instructions more closely than Andreas, Derrik made an impressive charge and knocked the other boy to the ground.  “Yield!” he demanded from under his helm, holding the tip of his blunted tourney blade to Andreas’s neck.

“I yield,” said the boy dejectedly.

Derrik planted the tip of his sword in the ground and helped Andreas to his feet.

“Well fought, young masters, well fought!” Sansa called, getting to her feet.  “A valiant victory, Master Derrik.  It will be honor to have you beside me at supper tonight, but first, come collect your prize.”

The eldest squire saluted, grinning, and started toward her.

“Wait,” said Sandor, striding toward the center of the yard.  He held another tourney blade.  “You’ve one more opponent to face before you can claim victory.”

Derrik’s eyes went wide as he watched Sandor shed his cloak.

“He has won fairly,” Sansa protested.

“If he’s to claim his kiss,” Sandor said, his eyes flashing, “he has to come through me.  Take up your sword, Derrik.”

“No!” Sansa cried, glaring at him.  He did not bother to acknowledge her.

“It’s alright, my lady,” said the squire, his voice quavering only a bit.  “I’ve faced him before.”

 _In training perhaps_ , she thought, though she held her tongue.

Sandor took up a low guard, the other squires watching open-mouthed from the fence.  Derrik followed him and the they began to circle each other, only a few paces apart.  Neither attacked, but Sansa could see Derrik preparing.  He wriggled his fingers, checking his grip, but in the moment he was unprepared, Sandor swung, nearly landing a blow at full force against the boy’s shoulder.  He was quick, though, ducking to avoid it.

“Sandor!” Sansa barked, eyes wide with fear and a sudden fury.

Derrik stumbled back a few paces, his blade already in a window guard above his head.  The tip of Sandor’s blade caught it, almost knocking it from the boy’s hands.

“Stay sharp!” Tomas and Andreas were yelling from the fence, cheering their friend.  “Get closer, he’s got the reach.”

Derrik charged, trying to get close enough to land a blow that Sandor’s longer blade could not block.  He failed, of course, and only succeeded and receiving the flat of it to his backside.  He yelped, but recovered quickly, turning again to defend himself from the attack.

Sansa watched as Sandor toyed with the boy, creating an opening intentionally only to close it and send Derrik careening away, trying to keep his feet and his sword in his hands.  She could hear the ragged breaths the boy was taking, trying desperately to keep up.

“Enough!” she barked, jumping down into the snow and striding out into the yard.  “Stop this foolishness at once!”  Placing herself between Sandor and the boy, she spat, “Master Derrik is the rightful champion of this melee and shall receive his prize.  A change in the rules during the tourney is unfair  _and_  unjust.”  She turned to the squire.  “Remove your helm, champion.”

The boy, still breathing hard, pulled the battered practice helm from his head, leaving his mousy locks sticking up on end. 

“My congratulations on your victory,” Sansa said.  Leaning down, she pressed a brief kiss to his sweat-streaked cheek.  “There is hot milk with vanilla and sugar in the kitchens for you all.  Well fought, young masters.”

The younger boys hurried over to Derrik and pulled him by both hands toward the castle.  Sansa could still see the shock in his face as he allowed himself to be led away.

Once the boys had gone out of earshot, Sansa rounded on Sandor.  “How _dare_ you humiliate that boy!” she hissed.  “This was a game that they enjoyed until you interfered.  Now I will never be able to do it again.  What in all seven hells were you doing?”  She strode up to him until she was a handbreadth away from his chest.  He had not sweated a drop, though Derrik had been dripping.  Her rage burned hotter.

Sandor regarded her for a moment without speaking.  His face was stony, but his eyes were scorching.  Leaning closer to her, he said, “You offered a prize worth fighting for.”  Without another word, he turned and strode toward the armory.

Sansa stood out in the cold long after he had gone, staring at the prints his boots had left in the snow.  When her own toes began to tingle, she made her way back to the castle.  Her gown was soaking wet by the time she got inside.

 * * * * *

Near suppertime, Sansa followed the scent of vanilla down to the kitchens.  She had spent the rest of the afternoon brooding over her tapestry, cursing Sandor Clegane with each  _clack_  of the pedals.  What in the name of the Seven had possessed him?  She knew, of course; he had said it: her prize.  A kiss.

Heat pooled in her belly as she thought of it, but she scolded herself, furious that he would dare challenge one of his own squires for something as trivial as a chaste peck on the cheek.

“Good evenin’, m’lady!” called the head cook when Sansa came into the kitchens.

“Hello, Ellys,” she replied, smiling.  “I wondered if perhaps you had a cup of that milk with vanilla and sugar left?”

“None right now, m’lady, but Betta can fix you up some if you like.”

Finding a barrel near the open window, Sansa sat.  “Please.”

“The boys you sent in earlier certainly liked it,” Ellys continued, her words punctuated by the  _thump_  of her fists into the dough she was kneading.

“I had hoped they would.  They had been training hard, and it is terribly cold out today.”

“And if it weren’t the finest thing, m’lady,” the cook continued as if she had not heard what Sansa had said, “while the wee lads was drinking their milk, in comes Ser Sandor and asks for a cup himself.  There was aught amiss, that much was clear from the way the lads was looking at him.  Faces as white as snow.”

Sansa held back an angry exclamation as the cook continued,  “But Ser Sandor had hardly drunk a sip before he started to go on about how he had acted a fool.  What'd he say, Betta?  You’ve such a good mind for remembering words.”

The slight girl who was stirring a small pot over the fire recited, with a slight lisp, “‘No man is without his faults and none gets through his life without showing them.’”

“And he begged their pardon!” Ellys said.

Sansa balked, her heart lifting quite suddenly.  “Did he?”

The cook nodded.  “I wouldn't have believed it, either, m’lady, had I not see it with my own eyes.  But that’s not the end of it.  After, young Master Derrik says that his papa once did tell him that women can make a fool of any man.  Of course Ser Sandor had to agree with the lad.  I reckon men have just as much reason to be sore about us as we do about them.  Laughed he did, and made the boy smile, too.”

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a breath.  Perhaps she had cursed him enough that he heard her and made his apology.

“Then,” Betta added as she brought a cup of steaming milk over to Sansa, “Ser Sandor tugged a bit of blue silk from inside his shirt and said, ‘But for as much trouble as they can be,’ meanin’ girls, m'lady, ‘there’s more good.’”  The maid sighed.  “Fancy his sweetheart gave him that favor?”

Sansa took a slow sip of the milk, letting the sweetness glide slowly over her tongue.  “Perhaps she did, Betta.”

“But he keeps it above his heart!  It’s like a song.”

He likely had been keeping the ribbon, waiting to award it to the victor of the melee, Sansa thought.  Yet, she had not seen it on any of the squire’s arms since Sandor himself had worn it to the feast.

“Do you know ‘Florian and Jonquil,’ m’lady?” Betta asked.

Sansa hid a smile in her cup, but she leaned toward the girl, whispering conspiratorially, “Why, it’s my favorite song.  Is it yours, too?”

“It is!”

“Perhaps we will have to ask Jonas to sing it at supper tonight, then.”

“Oh, please, m’lady, would you?”

“I promise you I will.”

“Stop pestering Lady Sansa now, Betta,” Ellys called.  “You’ve work to do.”

The girl bobbed a curtsy and scampered off.

“She’s a fanciful girl,” said the cook, “but I thank you for being kind to her, m’lady.”

Drinking the last of the milk down, Sansa slid down off the barrel.  “Children should be allowed their fancies.  It does no harm.  I thank you, Ellys, for the milk…and for what you told me.”

“It was naught, m’lady,” said the cook.  “After all, a favor should only go to someone who well deserves it.”

Sansa’s brows rose, but the older woman only smiled.  “Good day, m’lady.”

* * * * *

Sandor was late to supper that night. arriving just before the it had ended. He chewed his meal quietly as Jonas’s clear, deep voice sang the story of Florian the Fool, a plain knight who fell in love with the fair maiden Jonquil when he saw her bathing in one of the springs near Maidenpool.  Betta, who had been permitted to remain in the hall after the plates had been cleared in order to hear the song, had smiled dreamily for the duration.

Derrik had been in high spirits as he ate his stew at Sansa’s left hand.  She was reassured by his happiness and considerable appetite that all was well between the squires and their Knight Master.

After the meal, she had spent some time in the weaving room, but she could not seem to concentrate on the scene was working on.  She made her excuses to the other women and made her way back to the great hall.  She was not surprised when she saw a single figure sitting near the fire at its center.  Shutting the servants’ door behind her, she made her way down from the dais.

Though she approached quietly, she knew he was aware of her.  He was sitting with his back to her, drinking from a horn cup.  A plate scattered with a few bare chicken bones and bread crumbs sat on the floor beside him.

“Come to banish me for torturing children?” Sandor asked.

“No,” she replied as she sank down onto a roughhewn stool.  “All men—and women—can be fools at times.  You made amends, explained yourself.  I trust they understood.”

He snorted lightly and took a long drink.

Sansa poured herself a cup from the half-empty flagon.  “What you said, it was…good.”  To any other man she would have described it as honorable, knightly.

He did not ask how she knew what his words had been and she did not volunteer an explanation.

They sat in silence for a time, Sansa slowly sipping her wine until it was gone.  Sandor had risen only once to add more wood to the fire.  As she watched, she tried to imagine him feeding the fire in a small thatched-roof cabin before going back to the bed he shared with a pretty young woman.  Much to her displeasure, the woman she imagined looked quite like Pyma Blackeyes. Her visions were disrupted, though, as she heard the scuffling of feet from the servants' door.

"Lady Sansa!" cried one of the girls who minded the ravens in the ruins of the old maester's tower.  Not matter how they had tried to move the creatures, they would always return to their perches, forcing Sansa to order shelters with warm fires built to house them.

The girl was a small thing with dark hair and wide eyes.  There were a few white streaks of feces down the back and front of her dress.  The hem was ragged and dirty.  She held a rolled parchment in her hand.

Sansa rose to meet her, worry filling her heart.  "Thank you, child," she said as she took the parchment.  The girl dropped a short curtsey and fled.

The sealing wax on the letter was black as night and marked with crow in flight. Sensing Sandor’s presence at her back, Sansa held out the parchment.  As he broke the seal with his dagger, she drew in a breath.  The message read:

_Dear Sansa,_

_I write this in haste because there is little time now. Stannis Baratheon rides, as I write, with a hundred men toward Winterfell. Do not fear for your immediate safety.  As he will say, he desires only to treat for peace between our father’s house and his.  Perhaps this is the truth, but I warn you to be wary.  He claims to have relinquished his bid for the Iron Throne, and I believe him, but the red woman who travels with him is far more dangerous than he.  Expect them within a day.  Somehow, upon their departure we discovered all of our ravens lying dead.  No blood, not sign of how they died.  The return of a single raven allowed me to send this to you.  Tread carefully, sister.  We are surviving here, but there is something terrible coming from beyond the Wall that I fear we cannot overcome.  I will write again._

_Your brother, Jon_

Sansa read the letter one more before throwing it into the fire.  “Stannis Baratheon,” she mused.  “I know not what kind of man he is.”

“He’s a Southren lord,” Sandor snarled.  “More than like he’s running from the Dragon Queen’s talons.”

Sansa nodded, considering.  Or perhaps he would try to convince her to back his hopeless claim for the Iron Throne.  Or perhaps he was seeking supplies for the journey back to Dragonstone.  But certainly he would have sailed there and sought the aid of others.  Perhaps—her thoughts ground to a halt.

“Or perhaps he is seeking a new throne,” she said.

Sandor’s brows knit.  “The North?”

Pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, Sansa walked a few paces, then turned and traced them again.  “When Harrold and I arrived here, we found Bolton banners, but no men. Only the wights, those cursed creatures of the winter.  Without Roose Bolton, there was no Warden of the North.  The houses are scattered, answering to no one and taking no side in the war in the South.  But Winterfell is the seat of the North—”

“Making you the Warden.”

Sansa nodded, sinking into one of the chairs.  She took a few deep breaths, wrapping her head around what she was about to face.  “Stannis Baratheon wishes to be King in the North.”

“The guard and the wildlings will not be enough to match one hundred swords if he chooses to take Winterfell by force,” said Sandor.

“Then we must pray that what Jon said is true,” Sansa replied, “that he comes to us in peace.  This must be a battle of wit rather than steel.”  She shook her head.  “Another game of thrones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, 65 kudos and lots of comments for this story! To everyone who has stuck with me through the long writing process: you are AMAZING! You have been so supportive and this story wouldn’t be the same without you. I think this is a great chapter to post in celebration: it’s one you’ve been waiting for. Thank you all SO MUCH for reading. Write a review if you like—I do love them—but most of all, enjoy the story! [And old note.]


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It's been nearly two full years since I've updated this story. I was writing unfun things for my master's degree, but now I'm done with that, and it's time to get back to writing the good stuff. As I noted in the last chapter, this is probably a big pain in the ass for everyone, but I've done significant revisions of the first eight chapters, including removing the love scene. IT WILL COME BACK later, of course, but for the moment it has a temporary home as its own story (by popular request).
> 
> Thank you to all the people who have supported this story from the very beginning. I hope you all like the changes and new chapters! Here's some awesome Kate Rusby lyrics to express (more eloquently than I can right now) how I feel about returning to fic-land. Just swap "he" for "she:"
> 
> It's clearer every day,  
> He knows now he is here to stay,  
> He cares not why he went away so long.
> 
> He's found where he belongs,  
> He know he's been here all along,  
> He is smiling as he joins his friends in song.
> 
> We'll sing to the morning,  
> We'll sing till the bells they sound,  
> We'll sing now the wandering soul is found.
> 
> P.S. I finally got with it and got a tumblr. It's not the most exciting in the world (I share a lot of fandoms), but you can ask me anything you want. :) http://gefionne.tumblr.com/

###  **IX**

 “What man is this that goes from place to place begging for a crown?” Pyma Blackeyes spat at her feet, scowling. “Among my people such a man would be mocked and shamed, not taken in like a stray dog.”

Ser Sandor Clegane did not bother to stifle his laugh.

Sansa shot him a look, but said to Pyma, “I would be happier to see a stray dog, but Lord Baratheon and all those who travel with him are our guests, and we must receive them well.”

Pyma scoffed.

“We do not, however,” Sansa continued, looking down her nose sternly, “have to trust them.”

Pyma, who stood nearly a head shorter than Sansa, made a face. “The Free Folk trust no one.”

Sansa allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up in a sly smile. “And that is exactly why I need them.”

Hands placed firmly at her waist, Pyma frowned. Her dark eyes were suspicious, a look Sansa had not seen in them since they had arrived at Winterfell expecting to be mistreated.

Sansa felt the cramp of cold uncertainly in her gut, but she quelled it, pressing on. “I need eyes and ears among Stannis’s men.”

“You want spies,” Pyma growled.

“I want to know if we are in danger!” said Sansa, strident. “Winterfell is ours, and we must guard it from those who would to take it from us.”

The spearwife raised her brows. “How can one man take a hold such as this?”

Sandor grunted. “He travels with a hundred swords. Knights and soldiers sworn to his banner.” Catching Sansa’s eyes, he said, “Men who swore oaths to serve him.”

Sansa held his gaze for a moment so that he could see the fleeting smile that passed her lips, but then turned back to Pyma. “These are not the men you met on the Wall. They are far better trained and armed. With one word from Stannis, they could slaughter half of us in an hour, perhaps less.”

“We will fight—”

Sansa silenced her with a raised hand. “We cannot let it come to that.” She turned to the fire, watching the flames jump as they tried to follow the smoke up and into the frigid air. “You have told me of the terrors your people have seen beyond the Wall,” she said, quieter and with what she hoped was due respect. “You said that they are coming south, and my brother Jon, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, wrote of it. If there is a greater danger coming upon us, we cannot spare lives fighting Lord Baratheon’s men. We must treat with him. We have no other choice.

“But,” she said, forceful now, “I must know if there is talk of anything beyond what Lord Baratheon says to me. Will you not aid me in that?” She shook her head. “And it not for me than for your own security within these walls. If I am no longer the lady of castle, I cannot protect you.”

“Peace, Lady,” said Pyma, taking a step toward Sansa. “I will tell my people to be wary and to listen. We did the same at your ice wall and have done the same here. What I hear I will tell to you.”

“My thanks to you, Pyma Blackeyes,” Sansa said, extending her hand.

The spearwife looked quizzically at her for a moment, then gave a curt bow and was gone.

Sansa released the breath she had been holding, the tension in her stomach releasing a little. She went to the windows of her solar. They were closed tight against the bitter winter, but one she would sometimes open to look out onto the training yard. She unlatched the heavy locks that kept it in place and pushed the three-inch-thick wooden panel out. The brightness of the sun against the snow made her flinch, but soon her eyes grew accustomed to it.

She had barely slept the night. She had burned through three candles writing back to Jon and then to Petyr Baelish, the Warden of the Vale, requesting that he send a garrison of soldiers to Winterfell as quickly as was possible. The Eyrie was hers by marriage, but she had never had any desire to remain there.

Harrold had not objected to their taking leave. He had been eager to please his beautiful young wife and to distinguish himself by taking back her home from the Boltons. He had loved her deeply, and now she could hardly remember his face.

Petyr’s, though, was like a brand in her memory. His cunning brown eyes undressing her as she walked by. His thin lips curving into a smile as he touched her face in the places where his kisses would follow. She hated him, but she trusted no one else to rule in her stead. Whatever his faults, Petyr was clever with money and shrewd with secrets. He was a good, if slippery ally, and he had armed her with all the weapons she would need to face down Stannis Baratheon and his red woman, whoever she may be.

“You’re brooding about your coming war,” said Sandor from behind her.

She turned slowly, shaking her head. “You read me too well.”

He shrugged. “I spent years in Kings Landing watching plans being made and unmade. I know that look.

“You disapprove,” Sansa said, brows knit as she approached him.

Another shrug.

Stepping close, so the toes of their shoes almost touched, Sansa looked up at him. “I am not like them.”

He swallowed.

She watched the motion in his throat and then turned her gaze back up. His face reflected an hesitancy she had never seen before. His mouth was set in a straight line, save for the burned edges. His brows were not quite drawn together, but every so often a muscle would move as if there was another expression fighting for its place.

Sansa studied his uncorrupted skin. There were lines at the corner of his eye, and those around his mouth were deep-set from many years of scowling. His nose, though thick from a break that healed poorly, fit well with the square line of his jaw.

Cocking her head slightly, she imagined how the unmarred whole might look. He would appear younger, without the deep lines of sorrow and fury in his skin. His gray eyes would be lighter, clever and observant. He was handsome, especially when he smiled.

A gentle tug on her hair brought Sansa back to herself.

There was the true Sandor again, but his face had softened. Sansa could not help but smile as she realized he was holding an auburn wave between his fingers. Closing her eyes, she leaned into his hand, brushing her lips and chin against his knuckles.

A moment later, the opening of the solar door had them both jumping back from each other.

“M’lady,” said the handmaid Lissen slowly, her green eyes taking in Sansa’s pink cheeks and Sandor’s sudden interest in closing the window. “I’ve just come up from the seamstresses. They’re ready to fit you for your gowns.”

“Of course, dear,” said Sansa, smoothing the front of her day dress. Taking a step toward her bedchamber, she met Sandor’s eyes.

He snapped the window latch closed and strode out. The door closed firmly behind him.

Lissen smirked. “From the way you were lookin’ at him, m’lady, I should have thought you wanted him to stay.”

Sansa bit back her habitual dismissive retort, instead looking at Lissen through her eyelashes and giving her a coquettish smile. “Well, I wouldn’t want to frighten the seamstresses.”

The dresser’s eyes went wide, her mouth in a shape of a perfect ‘O.’

Amused, Sansa strode into her chambers to strip down to her smallclothes.

Lissen had not said a word by the time the four seamstresses arrived, their faces nearly hidden behind the fabrics they carried.

“Oh, m’lady,” said Edossa, an wrinkled matron who had been making dresses for the House of Arryn all her life, “will you not catch your death standin’ about in nothing but skin and that scrap of linen ‘round your unmentionables?”

Sansa, who had not noted the chill that lingered in the room from opening the window, shrugged.

“Well,” Edossa sighed, holding out a thick underdress, “come here quick and let’s get this on you.”

Sansa stood patiently as the gaggle of woman moved around her, settling fabrics and pinning them down with small silver pins from the leather pouches at their waists. Along with the exquisite gown she had ordered for Sandor’s knighting, they had been making a number of other finer pieces.

“The people of Winterfell  _are_ your subjects,” Brother Lysinder had said to her before taking leave of the castle. “You may dress in homespun, help them with their work and hold their children, but your nobility cannot be eschewed.”

Sansa had meditated on those words many nights, coming grudgingly to accept them. Of course she would continue to walk among her people in her tall boots and homespun skirts, but she could no longer deny that Winterfell was beginning to renter the world beyond its walls. As a Stark she would be expected to look and behave as a noblewoman again.

She sent up a prayer for the health of Brother Lysinder and his fellows, thanking the gods for sending them to her. Unbidden, the prayer she spoke each night before she slept came to her mind. _Warrior,_ _guide his blade in battle,_ _and guide Sandor Clegane always back to Winterfell_.She never strayed from those words, but if the gods truly knew her heart, they would hear what was meant: _Bind him to this place. Bind him to me_.

As she closed her eyes, she could feel the strands of her own hair against her chin as her skin brushed his knuckles. A wide smile spread across her face.

“Sweetheart’s smile,” said Edossa.

Sansa opened her eyes and looked down. “What?”

“That grin you was wearin’, m’lady,” the matron said, baring her own stained teeth in a macabre leer. “My mam and her mam before her called it the sweetheart’s smile.”

“And why is that?” Sansa asked, charmed by the sentimental name. It was an expression she would have wanted to master as a girl.

Edossa pointed to Lissen. “You. Smile bright.”

Lissen hesitated for a moment, but then grinned as broadly as she could.

“Now that,” said Edossa as she stepped up on a stool to pin a sleeve into place, “is a happy smile. It’s the kind you wear when you laugh or see somethin’ that makes you glad.

“Now think of the babe in your belly, girl, and the man you love who put it there.”

Touching the small bulge in her middle, Lissen looked down. Her lips curled up into a broad smile that was joyous and contented, but also secretive, as if she was pleased, but a little guilty at knowing a secret that was just for her.

“Sweetheart smile,” Sansa mused.

“Aye,” said Edossa. “And you was wearin’ the same but for a moment ago. What sweetheart have you found, then, m’lady?”

Sansa felt the heat in her cheeks. “I do not see that it is your concern, madam.”

“Deny it as you will, m’lady,” said Lissen, “but I’ve seen the way you look at—”

“Watch your mouth now, girl,” Edossa scolded. “What lies in a lady’s heart is her own.” She turned to Sansa and gave her a pointed look. “Unless she does give it to the man she fancies.”

The activity around her had slowed to a stop and five pairs of eyes were fixed on Sansa. “‘Hark! Hark!’” she quoted, holding back a laugh. “‘My fortune I would pay! If only I could find a way/To know the secrets of a lady’s heart.’”

“Fie on that!” Lissen grumbled while the others laughed.

“So, m’lady,” said Edossa, “which gown will you have to greet Lord Baratheon?”

Looking over the lovely fabrics before her, Sansa said, “The emerald.”

* * * * *

The wind was whipping around them as Sansa, Gendry, Sandor, and Alan Stone, the captain of the guard, sat astride their horses just beyond the gates of Winterfell castle. Strands Sansa’s hair were escaping the plaits Lissen had put into it despite the fur-lined hood she wore. Her cloak covered her legs where the emerald green of her skirts and laced boots did not. Still, she felt the chill right down to her bones.

Alan and Gendry were garbed much the same as one another, both in their plainclothes, cloaks and gloves. Even Sandor’s head was covered, but he wore his cloak open, displaying the armor he wore beneath it. _Wintersbane_ hung in a scabbard from Florian’s saddle.

Sansa still couldn’t help but laugh when she thought of the immense bay stallion being called such a thing. As if to agree, he chewed at the bit, tossing his head a little and making the plates of the criniere that protected his neck clank against each other. Sandor quieted him with a pat to the shoulder.

Jonquil, who had been standing with her head low and her tail tight against her hind legs, came to attention as she smelled the arriving horses. She whinnied low.

Florian trumpeted a challenge, popping up on his hind legs.

Squinting against the blowing snow, Sansa could just make out the first men in the column. Each was hooded and cloaked, but as they approached—bearing the banner of the fiery heart and prancing stag—a bald man with a stern look put back his hood.

Clucking once to Jonquil, Sansa went out to meet him. “My Lord Baratheon,” she said, loudly enough to be heard over the wind, “I am Sansa Stark and I bid you welcome to Winterfell.”

“My Lady Stark,” he replied, inclining his head. “I see you have been expecting us.” His greeting was cordial enough, but his tone betrayed surprise and annoyance.

Sansa suppressed a satisfied smile.

“Always remain a step ahead of your enemies,” Petyr Baelish had taught her. “Catch them off guard. The advantage is already yours.”

“Perhaps the lady has the gift of premonition,” said a figure cloaked in red, who bore the banner. Shaking her hood away, she revealed herself to be a beautiful woman with hair as red as fire and skin as pale as the moon. “Has her gift also told her _my_ name?”

Sansa inclined her head demurely. “I fear not, my lady, but I welcome you, too, to Winterfell.”

The red woman’s mouth twitched up, but she gave no other indication that she had taken offense to Sansa’s disinterest in her name. She knew it was a slight, but chose to say nothing. Sansa had to admire her for that.

When the red woman’s gaze turn to Sandor though, her eyes went wide. She spoke something under her breath and retreated back into her hood.

“Well then, Lady Stark,” Stannis grumbled, “are we to carve our accommodations out of the snowdrifts?”

Sansa could feel the rage emanating from Alan and Gendry. With a small wave of her hand, she backed them down. “Certainly not, my lord. If it please you, follow us.”

Upon entering the yard, Alan and Gendry broke away. The latter called at the top of his voice, “Your men will go with us, my lord. We have barracks enough for them.”

Stannis nodded, and his hundred men marched off, leaving only his a grizzled man with wary eyes  and the red woman at his side.

“You may leave your horses in the care of the stable boys, my lord,” Sansa said. “They will be well looked after.” From what she could see, they would be in need of hay, new shoes, and a good rubbing down.

Sliding down from Jonquil, she led the way into the castle.

“It has been a long time since I have walked within the walls of Winterfell,” said Stannis once he had shaken the snow from his cloak.

“I might guess you came here with your brother Robert,” said Sansa. “He and my father were so very close.”

“Yes.”

As they turned the corner, Lissen appeared with a village girl and two boys at her heels.

“Ah, good,” said Sansa, smiling. “I imagine that you are cold and tired from your journey, Lord Stannis. Young Walter here will show you to your quarters where a hot bath has been drawn for you. Olin will take your guardsman down the baths below the castle. Lys will see to Lady…”

"Melisandre,” said the red woman, “of Asshai.”

“She will see Lady Melisandre to her quarters,” Sansa concluded. “Supper is being prepared and will be ready when you are finishing bathing.”

“Ser Davos will require quarters and bath of his own,” Stannis said, looking to the man at his side.

“The common baths are well enough for me,” said Ser Davos, nodding to Sansa.

“Forgive me, ser,” she replied, earnest. “I mistook you for Lord Baratheon’s man-at-arms.”

“It is done, Lady Stark,” he said, bowing low.

She dropped a curtsey in return before turning to the boy Olin. “See to it that Ser Davos arrives at the chambers adjacent to Lord Baratheon’s. Lissen, will you send for a bath?”

“Yes, m’lady,” she said, curtseying and scurrying off.

“You know our names, Lady Stark,” said Melisandre, “but you have yet to tell us his.” She turned her eyes to Sandor. “What fine armor.”

“Of course,” said Sansa, her voice icy. “May I present Ser Sandor Clegane, sworn sword of House Stark.”

Stannis’s brows rose. “Clegane? Ah, yes, I see it now. I’ve heard tales of your family’s...exploits.”

Sansa’s hackles rose at the mention of the misdeeds of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides, but Sandor only nodded in silent acknowledgement. He had lived for thirty-four years with the shadow of his brother looming; one barb from a crownless king was naught to him.

Melisandre made a small whimpering noise, her eyes fixed on his scars. “The blessing of our Lord R’hllor can be such terrible burden.”

“The Red God?” asked Sandor.

“The only true god,” Melisandre replied. “And he has chosen you to do his work in this realm. No man who truly knows the light of Lord R’hllor is unburned.” She reached out as if to touch his face, but Sandor leaned away just enough to deter her. She looked almost hurt as she followed Yra into the east wing.

Sansa stared after her, fear knotting in her gut.

“That bitch is poison,” she said.

“Poison can be drawn out,” Sandor replied.

Sansa shook her head. “It is too late for Lord Stannis, I fear. She has power over him. Jon was right to warn us of her.

“What do you know of the Red God?” she asked, turning to Sandor.

“Nothing,” he said, “beyond the name.”

“I want her watched,” said Sansa. “Night and day. If she leaves her chambers, I must know of it.”

“You can’t put bloody guards on their doors. The Baratheon will think you mean to murder them.”

“No,” Sansa mused, chewing lightly on the end of her thumbnail. “But Alan can order more guards to the east wing battlements. Pyma can see to it that someone follows her in town. In the castle…”

“I’ll mind her,” Sandor rumbled, his hand going to the pommel of _Wintersbane_.

The pit of Sansa’s stomach roiled with sudden anger and fear, making her nauseous.

“She said you were blessed by R’hllor,” said she, “chosen to do his work.” Taking a deep breath, she reached out her hand and touched his scarred cheek. “I do not trust her. She could burn you…”

Sansa could see the tension in him, the fear as he recalled the coals that had left him so scarred.

Despite it, he said, “Who, then? Your smith? Your handmaid?”

Letting her hand fall away, Sansa replied, “There is no one else.” Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned her back to him.

_May all the gods—old, new, or red—protect him now, and guide him always back to me._


	10. Chapter 10

###  **X**

The quiet that had pervaded that first supper had done little to assuage the uneasiness settling in Sansa’s breast. She had known that Stannis Baratheon’s presence would put her on her guard, but she had not prepared for her people to do the same.

As she entered the hall on Stannis’s arm, the faces of the craftsmen, the guard, and their wives were stony, their gazes incredulous. No cry welcomed the high table, only shuffling, sniffles, and quiet groans that accompanied any gathering.

There were few children to be seen and even fewer wildlings. Pyma Blackeyes, though, was present, seated in her usual place at the end of the long table closest to the door. A number of fearsome spearwives flanked her, knives hanging conspicuously on their belts. From them suspicion was to be expected. They had every reason to distrust the Westroi, those who had forced their ancestors to remain beyond the Wall. The folk from the Eyrie and the Vale, however, had no such qualms; they had always been ruled by a noble of Stannis’s ilk. Yet, there they stood, unmoving and mute. Sansa had to stop before she—out of habit alone—raised her arms for silence.

Easing herself away from the grip that Stannis seemed reluctant to release, she said, “Good people of Winterfell, it is my honor to present to you Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone. He and those who ride under his banner are our guests. Make them welcome, as I have.” She paused, waiting for the clatter of cups on tables and boots upon the flagstones, but it did not come.

Her stomach tightening, she said, “Let supper begin,” as she sank down into her chair at the center of the dais. As her people sat, conversations began to break out, though none much louder than grumbling.

“Though I do not approve of the commons sharing a hall with their lords,” said Stannis, quite loudly, “I admit that you manage them well, Lady Stark. No rabble rousing to disturb the digestion.”

Turning to him, Sansa forced a smile. “That is…” She hesitated, searching for the words. “A kind thing to say, my lord, but the manners of these people are of their own making, not mine.”

“Indeed,” he said, though the last consonant was lost in his wine cup.

Sansa watched him from the corner of her eye as she took up her knife and sliced into the pork pie on her plate. She had attributed the dark circles beneath Stannis’s eyes and the hollowness in his cheeks to the journey, but even after he had bathed and dressed in clean clothes, he bore the same look. His frame should have carried more weight than it did. Winter was lean for all, but there was a gauntness about him that bespoke languor rather than ill health.

“These people followed you when you left the Eyrie, did they not, my lady?” asked Melisandre, leaning around Stannis in order to address Sansa. In stark contrast to her liege lord, the red woman looked flush with health and energy. The gown she wore was far too thin for winter, but Sansa had been told that she had refused all of the woolen garments offered her.

“They did, Lady Melisandre.”

“Such loyalty is not easy to earn,” the red woman said, delicately taking a piece of pork from the end of her knife and chewing it slowly. “Was it your husband they loved or is it you?”

“What kind of question is that?” asked Ser Davos from down the table. His expression and tone were stern. “I doubt they would have come if they did not wish to live at Winterfell.”

“Of course, Ser Davos,” said Melisandre. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were as hard as midwinter ice. “It was, perhaps, not the right question to ask.”

“I believe I take your meaning,” Sansa said. “Though I cannot rightly say that it was love for either my husband or myself that brought these people north. All men have reasons for seeking a different life than that into which they are born. The choice to come to Winterfell was made on their own terms.”

Melisandre nodded. “You speak with great wisdom, Lady Stark. Man or woman, young or old, lord or peasant, we must all choose to remain in the darkness or to seek the light.”

“Like a bloody song,” Sandor scoffed. He was sitting, as he often did, at Sansa’s left hand. “Pretty lies about dark and light, true knights slaying the wicked. Only fools and children believe that anyone is wholly evil or good.”

“I said nothing of goodness or evil, Ser Sandor,” said Melisandre, her smile sly. “Only of light and darkness.”

“But surely you meant it thus,” said Sansa, her dinner all but forgotten. “The choice to follow the righteous path of allegiance to the Red God rather than giving in to the corruption of worshipping others.”

“Allegory and mystery are the realm of the Seven,” said Melisandre, “not the Lord of Light. R’hllor speaks through visions, not parables. And what we see does not lie.”

“That is true enough,” said Sandor, “but I’d be willing to bet a hundred gold dragons that yours are the only eyes to see your god’s visions. And eyes may not lie, but men do.”

“I am a priestess of R’hllor,” Melisandre replied, her chin held high. “His chosen. Yet you believe that I would deceive those who have pledged their hearts to him?”

Sandor shrugged. “It makes no matter what you say to them, but we are all liars when it serves us.”

“Perhaps,” said Melisandre, turning back to her food.

“Tell me, Lord Stannis,” said Sansa, eager to move the conversation in a new direction, “how fares my half-brother Jon? He writes so rarely, I often fear for him.” Truth be told, it was Arya who had been close to their bastard brother, and Sansa seldom thought of him. But the question was a courteous one and would have been an acceptable topic for any company. Lies—one of which she had just told without a second thought—were, after all, the foundation upon which courtesy stood.

“I met him just once,” said Stannis, picking idly at the roast snow hare before him. “Seems a good lad. His men like him.”

Sansa nodded. “He was well liked as a boy here at Winterfell. My brother Robb and sister Arya were especially fond of him. Were you close with your brothers when you were young, my lord?”

Stannis raised a brow. “With Robert and Renly? No.”

Once more the conversation faltered and faded away, leaving Sansa at a loss for where to guide it next. After several tedious minutes, Stannis spoke again: “There are more children here than I expected.”

“Oh,” said Sansa. “I mean, yes, of course. Most of them belong to the families from the Vale, though a number of them came with the Free Folk from the Wall. You have a daughter, do you not, Lord Stannis?”

“Shireen,” he said, nodding. “She will soon celebrate her sixteenth nameday.”

“Then she will perhaps be wed soon,” said Sansa, smiling.

“Lady Shireen has refused to marry,” said Melisandre. “Instead she has chosen to go to the Citadel.”

Sansa cocked her head, curious. “But ladies are not permitted to become maesters.”

“She is going there to study only,” Stannis grumbled.

“Shireen’s uncle Omer, Lady Selyse’s younger brother, was the one to convince the seneschal to allow her to come to the Citadel,” said Ser Davos cheerfully. “She’s a clever young lady. Prefers books to gowns and fripperies. She’ll do well there.”

“You’re very fond of her, Ser Davos,” said Sansa.

The old knight smiled and nodded.

“It was her mother’s wish that she come under my tutelage,” Melisandre said, frowning, “and become a priestess of R’hllor. But it was not to be.”

“See that in a vision, did you?” Sandor rasped.

Sansa shot him a stern look. His eyes flashed darkly at her, but he backed down.

Turning back to Stannis, Sansa asked, “Was Lady Selyse disappointed in Shireen’s choice?”

“She knew nothing of it, R’hllor be thanked,” he replied. “My wife was delicate and succumbed to the winter’s chill three months past.”

“Forgive me,” said Sansa. “I did not know you were in mourning for her.”

“Yes, well,” Stannis said. “In three more months I shall be free of that.”

Sansa made a few more necessary noises of sorrow in order to disguise her distaste for his brusque dismissal of his dead wife. It had not been a love match, that she could remember, and clearly no affection had grown between them in the years of their union. Still, his callousness irked her.

They spoke little for the rest of the meal, and Sansa was relieved when, at last, she could rise and bid her people goodnight. Stannis nodded once to her before making hastily for the door. Melisandre moved slower, her gaze falling almost immediately upon Sandor. Though he said nothing, he offered his arm to her.

Sliding her fingers into his forearm, Melisandre smiled. “Goodnight, Lady Sansa.”

“Goodnight, my lady,” she replied, forcing her voice to remain steady. She stared at Sandor’s broad back—clothed in the black tunic she had made for him—until he and the red woman had disappeared into the shadowed passage.

Sansa felt strangely abandoned, having grown accustomed to walking at Sandor’s side as they left the great hall each night. Though the journey to her chambers was brief, their pace was never hurried and they always talked of what they had seen and done that day, often inconsequential things: how the horses had behaved under saddle or how the weavers had complained of their husbands. It was a peculiar ritual, perhaps, but it brought Sansa joy. She had not expected to long for it so once it was gone.

“May I escort you to your rooms, my lady?” asked Ser Davos, drawing Sansa’s attention back to the grizzled knight.

“I should hope that I know my way there by now,” she laughed, taking his arm, “but I would be honored all the same, ser.”

“The honor is mine,” he said as they made their way out of the great hall. “As I only wish to see more of this remarkable place before I retire.”

“You find Winterfell remarkable?” Sansa asked, smiling.

Davos nodded. “Indeed, my lady. Though it is bitterly cold without, inside it was quite pleasant. The same cannot be said for the ancient holds at the Wall.”

“Vigilance before comfort,” said Sansa. “The life of a Watchman is not an easy one, or so I have been told.”

“You’re right about that, my lady,” said Davos. “And few at the Wall asked for it, but the Lord Commander, your brother, is a strong leader of men.”

“So said Lord Stannis. I fear I would not be able to recognize him as the Lord Commander, for he must be vastly changed from the boy I once knew.”

“Time has its way of altering us all,” said Davos, holding up his left hand.

Sansa had seen at dinner that the tips of his fingers were severed at the first joint. Despite the injury, he had handled his knife and fork deftly.

“How did that happen, ser, if I may ask?”

“It was my punishment for many years of smuggling,” he said. “Lord Stannis himself wielded the blade.”

Sansa’s brows knit. “Yet you serve him still.”

“Certainly,” said Davos. “What he did was just in the face of my crimes. He could have ordered me killed, but he chose instead in award me a knighthood and lands. After all, it was I who smuggled in the food that kept him and his men alive during the siege of Storm’s End.”

“Until my father could break it,” said Sansa. “I remember the story well, though I did not know your part in it. Lord Stannis is fortunate to have you in his service.”

Davos smiled. “As I am to be in it. Forgive me for speaking so freely, my lady, but I ask not to judge him too harshly. These past years have been...trying. He was not always so coarse.”

“We have known little peace since I was a girl,” said Sansa. “And we all grow weary from the burden.”

“Indeed,” said Davos. “I have fought two wars already in my life, and yet here I stand fearing that we are on the cusp of a third.”

“Daenerys Targaryen?” asked Sansa.

“No, my lady,” he replied. “There is something far worse brewing north of the Wall. Something older and fouler than the Dragon Queen.”

Sansa stopped and turned to him. “What do you know of it?”

“Only what the wildlings at the Wall talked of,” he said. “An ancient evil they call the white walkers.”

Sansa nodded grimly, recalling Old Nan’s tales. “Jon wrote to me of something terrible beyond the Wall. I have heard only legends of the Others’ terrible reign during the Long Night, but I have seen the wights and I am afraid that there may be truth to the old stories.”

“The red priestess, too, warns of the Long Night,” said Davos. “And though I do not care overmuch for her or her god, fire fells the shambling corpses where steel does not. I will put my faith in that, if not R’hllor himself.”

“These are dark days, Ser Davos,” Sansa sighed. “We have enjoyed a small measure of peace here at Winterfell these past two years, but I fear that it is coming to an end.”

“I pray that it is not,” he said, taking her hand in his. “For I would not wish suffering on so kind and lovely a lady.”

“You are very gallant, ser,” said Sansa, smiling despite the graveness of their conversation. “I am very glad to know you.”

“And I you, Lady Stark,” he said as they resumed their walk toward her chambers.

When they arrived outside her door, Sansa could hear Lissen humming tunelessly as she waited to help her lady undress for the night. The little maid’s belly had already begun to grow round with child. Bile rose in the back of Sansa’s throat as she thought of harm coming to the babe, especially at the hands of wights or, Seven forfend, white walkers. Swallowing heavily, she dropped a shallow curtsey to Davos.

“Thank you for your company, ser,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow I could show you more of Winterfell?”

“I would like that very much, my lady,” he said, bowing low. “Goodnight.” He turned on his heel and departed.

Putting the thoughts of long nights and ghastly monsters from her mind, Sansa opened the door and smiled at Lissen.

* * * * *

“The Broken Tower burned in a lightning storm over a century ago,” said Sansa as she approached it. Ser Davos stood at her left, looking up the ruined turret. “It was once the tallest lookout point along the castle walls, but none bothered to rebuild it after it collapsed. One day, I will see it stand again.”

“I have no doubt of that, my lady,” said Davos, offering his arm as they descended the hill on which the ruins lay.

After breaking her fast that morning, Sansa had found Ser Davos in the yard just outside the Great Keep. He had been outfitted in furs to keep the chill at bay as they walked the grounds of Winterfell, as she had promised the night before. It had taken more almost half the day to explore it all, and Davos had had many questions about the ancient halls of Sansa’s home.

As they entered the yard, Sansa heard her name.

“M’lady Stark!” called Lester Fern from the shelter that served him and his brother as a woodshop. It had no walls, but if the wind blew too strong, the Ferns could lower thick canvas flaps to cut it. The floor was earthen and only lightly dusted with snow; the roof the Ferns had shingled themselves kept the worst of it at bay.

Sansa and Davos stamped their feet as they stepped beneath it.

“Good day, Lester,” Sansa said.

Removing his cap, he smiled. He had begun to lose his teeth already and several black gaps showed. “Good day, m’lady, Ser Davos.” The grizzled knight nodded.

“Have you need of me?” Sansa asked.

“Not urgently, m’lady,” said Lester, “but you said you wished to have a look at the patterns on the doors for the family chambers before they were hung.” He gestured to the panels lying on a bench at the center of the shelter.

“Oh, yes,” Sansa said, smiling. “I had all but forgotten about them.” She had requested that each one of the doors for the chambers that had once belonged to her siblings be carved with unique scenes.

Going over to the bench, she looked the first panel over. With a gloved hand, she traced the likenesses of the vine-covered stones.

“This one is for the rooms that belonged to my brother Bran,” she said to Davos. “He dearly loved to climb.”

Turning to the next panel, Sansa said, “Wooden swords. My youngest brother Rickon had just begun to learn to fight when last I saw him. He was only three years old.”

“He is no longer living, then,” said Davos somberly.

Sansa shook her head. “He died with Bran when Winterfell was sacked by the Ironborn.”

Laid out near Rickon’s door were three others: one bearing the form of a small girl with wild hair astride a long-legged horse, one that bore the silhouette of an ancient castle with the Wall towering behind it, and one carved to depict a fluttering banner that bore the crowned direwolf of the King in the North.

“The last one is over here, m’ lady,” Lester said, pointing to where the last panel was standing against one of the shelter’s supports. Sansa’s eyes widened as she studied it.

Though she no longer slept in the room, she had asked that the door to her childhood chambers bear the image of her direwolf Lady. She had described her to the Ferns, but she had not expected the rendering to be so remarkable. Lady, well-groomed and wearing a leather collar, was sitting on her haunches with her ears pricked as if listening for her mistress to call. At her feet was a half-finished piece of embroidery bearing the Stark sigil.

“These are exquisite, Lester,” Sansa said, blinking to keep the tears from her eyes.

“Stephen done the last one there,” he said. “He’s got a better eye for details than I does, m’lady.”

She touched the carved fur at Lady’s back. “It’s wonderful. I must thank him at supper tonight.” She looked up, smiling wanly. “This work is unmatched.”

Lester’s pale cheeks darkened. “It’s not half as beautiful as you, m’lady,” he said, twisting his cap in his hands.

Sansa smiled, inclining her head. “Thank you, Lester. I will be glad to see these doors hung soon.”

“You are well loved by your people, my lady,” said Davos as they ambled away from the woodshop and toward the barracks and armory. From the yard opposite, Sansa could hear the ring of steel as the guard drilled.

“They are good folk,” she replied. “I am privileged to have them here with me. Would you care to see the guardsmen at training?”

“I would be pleased to,” said Davos.

As they rounded the corner, Sansa’s gaze was immediately drawn to the tall figure striding among the guardsmen as they swung their blades and staves. Sandor watched them intently, his right hand resting on the dragonglass pommel of his sword.

“Hold,” he said after a time. The guardsmen paused in their drills. Sandor called one man forward, ordering him to stand ready. In one sweeping arc, he drew Wintersbane and attacked. The guardsman parried well, his stance holding firm even though Sandor’s blow was solid. They moved around each other, the guardsman going on the attack after a few more blows. Sandor blocked them easily, but remained on the defensive, allowing the smaller man to control the fight.

“Your knight master is a skilled swordsman,” said Davos.

“He is,” said Sansa, smiling. “Are you schooled in the art, ser?”

Davos flexed his crippled hand. “No, my lady. I am a sailor. I carry a cutlass and am handy enough with it, but I could not hope to wield a greatsword as Ser Sandor does.”

“Don’t let him hear you call him that,” laughed Sansa. “Sandor suffers the knighthood only because he thinks it fitting that Winterfell have a knight master. Even in the Kingsguard, he refused the title.”

“Hmm,” said Davos. “I had heard it told another way.”

Sansa lifted her brows.

“I should not encourage hearsay,” he said gruffly, “but among your people I have heard it said that he swore his sword not to Winterfell, but to you, my lady. They say that he accepted the knighthood because you asked it of him.”

“I had hoped that he would take up the mantle,” Sansa admitted, “though I did not ask him outright.” She smiled wider, though, as she thought of what Sandor had said the day she knighted him: _Sworn sword of Sansa Stark_.

“The weapon he carries,” said Davos, “it is very striking.”

 _“Wintersbane._ It is the work of our smith, Gendry. He was trained in Kings Landing.”

“It shows,” said Davos. “As does his parentage.”

Sansa nodded grimly. “I had hoped to keep him out of Lord Stannis’s sight, for it is quite clear that Baratheon blood runs in his veins. He is the spitting image of Robert Baratheon as a younger man, or so I am told. I knew him only in his later years.”

“He is that,” said Davos. “But you do not have to fear for him. Though Lord Stannis disapproves of his brother’s bastards, he has no reason to hate them. Your smith is in no peril.”

“That pleases me to hear,” said Sansa, truthful. It was not unheard of for lords to order their siblings’ bastards killed. She was glad Stannis was not among them. “Shall we return to the keep, Ser Davos? The winds grows bold and I am in need of some mulled wine.”

“That would be fine indeed, my lady,” he said, smiling beneath his gray beard.

As they turned to go, Sansa glanced back at Sandor. He had finished with the guardsman and had told the rest to resume their drills. Leaning on his sword, he paid the guard no heed. He was watching Sansa on Ser Davos’s arm with marked displeasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! I'm so sorry I've been away from this story for so long. I started my first real librarian job almost right after graduation, and it was a whole lot busier than I expected. There was also the matter of the Kiliel story I've been working on... So yeah, my bad. But fortunately, I've finally found my stride at work and with writing this fic! I've got this and at least two more chapters coming within the next week. At last, the love scene will be back (with some slight improvements)!
> 
> My thanks to the fabulous CatherineWinner for reading over this chapter for crazy typos! :D


	11. Chapter 11

###  **XI**

The gentle clacking of the shuttle and pedals as Sansa worked the loom soothed her. She had been working steadily on her tapestry, having at last finished the scene depicting her father’s execution at the hands of Ilyn Payne. The shadows of the crowd that stood in the square to watch the spectacle had faded into the shape of the Red Keep’s walls, where the head of Eddard Stark had been mounted. On the bridge between the keep and ramparts stood four figures: the Boy King Joffrey, a young girl in a dress cut in the Southern style, and two knights of the Kingsguard.

It was one of Sansa’s most terrible memories. She had been forced by Joffrey—he was still her betrothed then—to look upon the grotesque remains of her father’s face. It was a display of the king’s true nature, and it also marked the moment when Sansa set aside the last vestiges of her girlhood.

She had spent a nearly a year in King’s Landing as a prisoner of the Lannisters, though she wore the guise of their guest. She had been friendless, save for Sandor Clegane, for it was he who was her guardian, her towering shadow as she moved through the castle. She would not have called him a friend to her then, but when all the others turned their backs on her, he showed her that courtesies would not shield her from the brutality of court.

“Life is not a song,” he had said. She knew no truer words.

Though weaving the scene drew out the dark memories she had long ago laid aside, it threw into sharp relief how fortunate she was to be at Winterfell once again. Yet, the tranquility she had enjoyed in the years since she and Harrold had returned to her home was coming to an abrupt end with the arrival of Stannis Baratheon and his red woman.

They had been in residence for three days. Despite his prickly nature, Stannis had a great fondness for learning, which Sansa admired about him. He spent most of his days in what was once the maesters’ library tower. Though most of the books had burned when Winterfell was put to the torch, Harrold and Sansa had brought a number of volumes from the Eyrie. Stannis was never without a tome beneath his arm and sometimes even read throughout supper, leaving Sansa to converse with Ser Davos instead.

The Onion Knight was pleasant company, for which Sansa was glad. He had taken to walking with her in the afternoons as she ventured to the village to visit the wildlings. Pyma Blackeyes and her spearwives were wary of him, but Sansa hoped that her presence would ease their concern. Davos had many stories of his exploits as a smuggler, all of which Sansa was happy to hear. He spoke of his family as well, for he had many children and a wife whom he loved quite dearly. Sansa found herself growing fond of him, even in the short time they had been acquainted.

Lady Melisandre, too, spoke to Sansa as they supped, but she saw little of the red woman otherwise. Melisandre was often in the company of Stannis or, to Sansa’s displeasure, hanging on Sandor’s arm. In the evenings, she always left the great hall at his side, smiling up at him like a cat who had dined on clotted cream.

Sandor’s expression, though, was almost unfailingly stony. He disliked the red woman and he trusted her even less. He had said as much the morning before, when he and Sansa had galloped ahead of the hunting party with which they had ridden out.

“She hangs on like a leech,” he had said once he had slowed the bay stallion to a walk. “It seems I’m only free of her when I sleep at night, and even that solitude is hard won.”

Sansa had frowned, forcing down the anger that flared in her gut. Jonquil noted the tension in her and tossed her head. Sansa laid her hand on the mare’s neck.

“You would be free of her?” she asked Sandor.

He nodded. “I’d rather keep company with the bloody Stranger himself. She talks of the flames of her Red God as if she could fuck them.” He shook his head, his revulsion apparent.

“Pyma Blackeyes says that her fire is no more than sorcery and lies,” Sansa said.

“That little spearwife is clever,” said Sandor, “I’ll give her that.”

A night or two before, he recounted, he had seen a golden bowl on a table in the red woman’s chamber. It had been empty save for a single flame, like that of a candle. It seemed as though it was burning without the aid of tinder, but when he had picked it up, he felt the sloshing of oil.

“It was concealed in a reservoir just below the flame,” he had said. “It was meant to appear as magic, but it was only cunning trickery.”

Sansa had smiled, but she said, “There must be some power in her faith, or Stannis would not place such trust in it.”

Sandor had shrugged. “Men will call a mummer’s farce truth if there’s gold or glory in it.”

“Or a woman,” said Sansa, her thoughts on the thin, crimson dresses Melisandre wore.

“Whatever it is between them,” said Sandor, “I doubt it’s that.”

Sansa raised a brow, questioning.

“This Baratheon is not like his brother. His laces are knotted.”

“But I do not believe it would take much to get the red woman to lift her skirts,” said Sansa, not bothering to mask the derision in her voice. Her dislike for Melisandre deepened, for if she was not Stannis’s lover, the way she looked at Sandor was all the more troubling.

“What does that matter?” he asked, eyeing her slyly.

Sansa chewed her cheek. If her silence had bothered Sandor, he did not show it. He had simply gathered the reins and suggested they rejoin the hunters. Sansa had followed without protest, her mind’s eye still trained on the red woman.

As though she had summoned her with her thoughts, Sansa heard Melisandre’s voice from the passageway outside of the weaving room. Stilling, she strained her ears to hear what was being said. She heard a chortling laugh and the heavy footfalls approaching the door. A moment later, Melisandre strode into the room. Unsurprisingly, Sandor Clegane followed close on her heels.

“My Lady Stark,” said the red woman, dropping a shallow curtsey.

“Good evening, Lady Melisandre,” Sansa said, rising from the stool on which she had been sitting.

Melisandre waved a hand. “Please, do not get up on my behalf. I only wished to see the tapestry you are weaving. I have heard stories among your people of how magnificent it is.”

Sansa forced a smile and gestured for her to come closer. Sandor remained in the corner of the room nearest the door. Sansa nodded once to him, flashing a brief smile. The corner of his mouth turned up as he regarded her.

Leaning over the loom, Melisandre’s gaze fell upon the section of the tapestry Sansa was working on. “This is meant to be you, is it not?” she asked, pointing to the figure of the girl. “And what is it that you have in your hand?”

“A handkerchief,” said Sansa dryly. It was clear enough that she was holding the scrap of fabric to her face.

“You are weeping.”

“I wept that day, yes,” said Sansa. “But in this rendering, Joffrey had ordered Ser Meryn Trant to hit me and my lip was bloody. I was stanching it.”

“Such savagery,” Melisandre said, shaking her head. With her fingernail, she traced form of the towering knight standing nearest to young Sansa on the bridge. “Is this him?”

“Trant stood by the king,” said Sandor before Sansa could reply. He crossed the room in three long strides, looking down at the tapestry.

Melisandre raised a brow, glancing up at him. “You were there?”

He nodded, his gaze turning on Sansa. “I stood by and watched him strike her. It wasn’t the last time, either. It should have been.”

Sansa could see the wrath flashing in his eyes. He blamed himself for what had happened. “You were a knight of the Kingsguard,” she said. “It was not your place to countermand the king’s order, no matter how abhorrent.”

Sandor shook his head, but said nothing.

“How terrible it must have been for you, my lady,” said Melisandre after a moment. “It takes great will to suffer such torment.”

“She’s got mettle,” Sandor rasped. “More than any Southerner I’ve met.”

Sansa smiled at him. “I did what was necessary to survive in that den of lions, nothing more.”

Melisandre glanced between them, her expression unreadable. Uneasy in the silence, Sansa looked away and settled back down to the loom.

“Tomorrow evening,” Melisandre said, clasping her hands together, “I should like to honor Lord R’hllor in the northern courtyard. Lord Stannis’s soldiers have been requesting the ceremony. They are most devout. Will you join us there, my lady?”

Sansa frowned, but said, “If it please you.”

Smiling, the red woman said, “It would please the Lord of Light.”

* * * * *

The next day, as Sansa sat in her solar, a raven arrived.

_Dark wings, dark words,_ she thought as she unrolled the parchment. The message was long and written in the small, exact hand of the Eyrie’s maester.

_My dear Sansa,_

_I was deeply disturbed by your letter when I received it this afternoon. Stannis Baratheon’s arrival in Winterfell could not come at a worse time. Though you are far removed from it, the war in the South is going poorly for the Lannisters and Tyrells. It is unlikely that they will be able to hold out much longer. We will soon have a new High Queen and we must be prepared. Stannis, I would imagine, sees this as clearly as I. Though he is a stubborn man, he is not a fool. Be wary of him, my dear. There is no doubt that he has designs upon the North and perhaps hopes to unite the stag and direwolf as his elder brother Robert and your father once did._

_Are you surprised by this news? Perhaps once you would have been, but now I do not think so. You are the Warden of the North and Lady Protector of the Vale, easily the most powerful woman in Westeros. You will deny it, I know, but Margaery Tyrell and her child king will soon fall. Daenerys Targaryen will never deign to ally herself with the brother of the man who usurped her family’s throne. Stannis’s only choice is to seek your hand._

_I will send you the swords that you requested. It will take several days to gather the soldiers and a fortnight for them to reach you. Stall Stannis with a lengthy courting if you must, but do not refuse him until our men have arrived. Yes, I know that you will refuse him. He would seek to control you and Winterfell, neither of which you could abide. Still, your refusal will anger him and you cannot risk his ire when your people are outmatched martially. Take care with him. Good fortune and health, my dear. You are missed._

_-P_

 

Sansa read the letter twice before tossing it distastefully into the fire. Though Petyr Baelish was a foul creature, he was seldom wrong when it came to the politics of the realm. And as much as she wished to deny it, he knew her well, for if Stannis was indeed seeking to wed her, she would never accept him. It was fortunate, then, that he would not be out of mourning for three months yet, tradition preventing him from courting her until his duty to his departed wife was done. It would give the men from the Eyrie time to reach Winterfell.

Pacing before the hearth, Sansa considered her next moves as though she were playing a game of cyvasse. She would have to speak to Sandor and Alan Stone, captain of the guard, about where to quarter the soldiers. They could not share the barracks with Stannis’s men, else there could be fighting. A place would have to be found for them, and quickly.

Sansa glanced out the window to gauge the height of the sun. It was long past midday and the long winter darkness would soon be descending. Alan Stone would be out riding with the afternoon patrol and Sandor would likely be in the yard.

_I must speak to Gendry as well_ , thought Sansa. She would have to ensure that he had apprentices enough to manage the repairs of weapons and armor that inevitably came with a force of soldiers. She would seek him out first, she decided.               

Exchanging her slippers for tall, fur-lined boots, she tucked her skirts into the wide belt she wore at her waist and swept a cloak over her shoulders. The passages near her chambers were deserted as she made her way through the Great Keep and out into the smithy yard. The sound of hammer on steel was curiously absent, but she disregarded it.

As she crossed the threshold into the forge, however, she stopped short. Across the room she could see Gendry, his bare back to her. Around his waist were a pair of pale, skinny legs, locked at the ankles. Flushing crimson, Sansa turned away. As she retreated, she did what she could to avoid hearing Lissen’s low moans.

“It’s the strangest thing,” the chambermaid had said a few nights before. “Though I’ve a babe growin’ inside me already, I want nothing more than to have Gendry try to get another on me. More than once in a day, if you take my meaning, m’lady.”

Sansa had laughed at that, having been told much the same thing by the matrons who had prepared her to wed Harrold. Such things had both shamed and fascinated her as a maiden, but as she had learned to enjoy bedding her husband, she had begun to hope for the days when she, heavy with child, would have such a strong desire for lovemaking.

Her face and neck still warm, Sansa tried to banish the image of Lissen and Gendry’s coupling from her mind. She had intruded upon a most private moment, and it shamed her to continue to think on it. Yet, her heart hammered in her chest as she imagined how it must have felt to lie back against a roughhewn table with her skirts rucked up to her waist, pulling her lover against her with her legs, her bare feet crossed behind him.

Rounding the corner of the armory, just out of sight of the forge, Sansa lay back against the wall. Taking a handful of snow from the ground, she pressed it to her chest beneath her cloak, letting rivulets of icy water run down between her breasts. It relieved her somewhat, and she almost laughed. In the years since Harrold’s death, she had not often felt the heat of unexpected desire and it had caught her off guard.

Sighing, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She fancied herself walking into the forge and ordering Gendry’s apprentices out so that she could have her way with him. But, when she laid her hand on his arm, it was not the smith standing before her. No, he was taller, and his dark hair fell over his scarred cheek—  

“What are you doing hiding back here?”

“Blessed Seven!” Sansa cried, her eyes popping open. “You frightened me.”

“I can see that,” said Sandor Clegane, looking down at her. He wore a thick woolen tunic to keep the cold at bay, leather breeches, and his riding gloves. He had just come from the stables, then. “The question stands, little bird: why are you lurking about?”

“I am not lurking,” said Sansa, almost petulant. “I was simply…resting a moment.”

Sandor glared. “You shouldn’t be alone here, not with the Baratheon men about. Where’s your Onion Knight?”

“Ser Davos is attending Lord Stannis, I’m sure,” she replied. “He is his liege lord after all.”

“You wouldn’t know it,” said Sandor. “Not with the way he’s been following you about.”

“He is curious about Winterfell,” said Sansa, dismissive. “I had no reason not to show it to him. And after supper he is kind enough to see me to my chambers.”

“And if he tells his lord all about the keep,” Sandor rasped, “will he not have a greater advantage were he to attack it?”

“If Stannis were going to take Winterfell by force,” said Sansa, hands at her hips, “he would have done it already. It is Ser Davos you do not like.”

He shrugged. “If you must court swords, then it might as well he his.”

“‘Court swords’?” Sansa asked, brows knit. “You think I wish to Ser Davos to serve me?”

Another shrug.

“Even if I did,” she continued, “he would never leave Stannis’s service. He is not a knight by training, but one by honor. I have my knight master. What reason would I have to seek his allegiance?”

“One knight is not enough,” Sandor growled, “as you well know.”

“True,” said Sansa. “And that is why I’ve written to the Vale. Petyr Baelish is sending men to Winterfell. There will be knights among them. Are you prepared to lead an army, Sandor?”

He scowled, taking a step toward her. “Why did you not tell me of this?”

“I’ve only just gotten word,” she replied, drawing herself up to her full height. “I was on my way to you.”

“Tell me then,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Walk with me,” said Sansa, “and I will.” Gathering her cloak around her again, she set off toward the steps that would take her up onto the castle walls. Sandor fell into step beside her.

The wind blew harder as they ascended the ramparts. The guards on patrol nodded to them as they strolled along the eastern parapet. Sansa remembered fondly the days she had walked the same path with her father, listening to him tells stories of how Brandon the Builder had stood atop the hill where the Great Keep now lay and envisioned Winterfell down to its smallest detail. She wondered what both her ancestor and her father would say of the castle now. She smiled, hoping that they would be as proud as she was of what her people had done.

“Is it good news from the Vale, then?” asked Sandor, breaking the silence between them. He had been watching Sansa from the corner of his eye, as she often caught him doing.

“Good enough,” she replied. “Though it was not Littlefinger’s letter I was thinking of just now. I used to walk here with my father and brothers. I’m sure I’ve told you of it.”

“You have,” he said. “I should have known it was them that had you smiling.”

“Do I often smile when I think of my family?” she asked, taking Sandor’s arm. He hooked his thumb on his belt, allowing her to settle her hand in the warm crook of his elbow.

“You do,” he replied. “But you are happier here than you were in King’s Landing with the damned Lannisters, that’s plain to see.”

“As are you,” said Sansa, looking up at him. He nodded.

“The war is going badly for them,” she said. “The Lannisters and the Tyrells. Petyr believes they will not be able to hold out against the Targaryen and her dragons for much longer.”

“ _Hmph_ ,” Sandor grumbled. “So she’ll sit the Iron Throne. What difference will it make to us?”

“Little, I hope,” said Sansa, “though I fear once she grasps the South in her talons, she will turn her gaze to the North.”

“What will you do, then, little bird?”

“I do not know,” she replied, earnest. “It is my duty as Warden of the North to defend these lands from any foe that would seek to take them from us. Perhaps Daenerys Targaryen means to do so, but I cannot help but recall what Jon wrote of the threat beyond the Wall. Should the tales of the White Walkers be true, Winterfell must oppose them, and we cannot fight a war on two fronts.”

“As it stands,” said Sandor, “we cannot fight a single war. Winterfell is home to more women and children than fighters. The Baratheon men bolster that number somewhat, but they can be gone as quickly as they came. What did Baelish say of swords from the Vale?”

“He has pledged two hundred, as I asked,” said Sansa. “Enough to surpass the number Stannis brought with him.”

“Good,” said Sandor. “Though two hundred men is hardly an army.”

“I am Lady Protector of the Vale,” Sansa sighed. “I cannot leave it entirely undefended. Will you speak to Alan Stone about finding a place to quarter them when they arrive?”

Sandor nodded. “The soldiers will be easy enough, but if there are knights among them, as you say, they will expect chambers of their own.”

"I shall see to it that the guest house is prepared. And the stables made ready for their horses.” Sansa felt the heat in her cheeks rising as she added, “I will speak to Gendry about their armaments as well.”

“If you can bloody find him,” Sandor said. “Last few times I went to the smithy, he was gone.”

“With Lissen, no doubt,” Sansa chuckled. Sandor shook his head, though his mouth turned up in a crooked smirk.

They walked in silence for a time, coming around to the northernmost length of the wall.

“Look,” said Sandor, pointing to the courtyard just below them. A small crowd of Baratheon soldiers were gathered around a pyre as tall as any of them. At the edge of the courtyard stood Stannis, a flaming torch in his hand. Melisandre, her gown clinging to her in the chilly breeze, beckoned him toward her place beside the pyre. Taking the torch from Stannis, she raised it high above her head. The soldiers began to chant, though the wind whipped the words away before Sansa could make them out. Melisandre’s voice, however, was clear as a bell.

“Lord R’hollr,” she intoned, walking a circle around the pyre, “maker of light, wielder of flame, we beseech you! Banish the darkness from within us and from this land. Bathe us in the heat of your fire, for the night is dark and full of shadows!”

With a flourish, she cast the torch onto the piled branches. They took far faster than Sansa would have thought possible, the flames burning red as blood. At the core of the blaze, they were nearly purple.

“Sorcery,” Sandor said, his face twisted with disgust, perhaps even fear. He had tensed as the fire roared to life; Sansa had felt him go still at her side. Gently, she eased her hand down the length of his arm until her fingers were entwined with his. Together they watched as Melisandre swept around the flames, her hair and gown making her look like one of its fiery tendrils.


	12. Chapter 12

###  **XII**

Sansa remembered when, in her girlhood, a fortnight had seemed like an age, each day passing with the unhurried peacefulness of youth. She had thought life at Winterfell tedious then, yearning for the bustle of the great cities of the South. What a fool she had been, for as mistress of the castle, she rarely found a moment’s peace.

The days since Stannis Baratheon’s arrival had flown past in a whirlwind. Sansa heard the grievances of her people each day in the great hall, as was her custom, but she no longer sat alone upon the dais. Though he spoke little, Stannis was nearly always present.

“It’s downright odd, m’lady,” Lissen had said as she helped Sansa dress for supper one evening. “He just _sits,_ and he watches the goings on without a word. He’s not offered you counsel has he?”

Sansa had shaken her head.

“I thought not. What’s he about, just placin’ himself in the hall? Has he nothing else to see to?”

As much as she hoped it was simple boredom that drew him to her side, Sansa feared that Lord Baratheon wished to acquaint himself with Winterfell by design. She believed—with good reason—that he intended to pursue her hand when he was at last free of mourning his wife. She would refuse him, of course, for though he was an honorable man, she had no desire to wed him. There was little reason to, either. Though he was once the brother of the king, the Baratheon’s time on the Iron Throne was swiftly coming to an end as the Dragon Queen defeated the Lannister and Tyrell armies.

The wails of the wildling woman pierced the air, drawing Sansa’s attention back to the small hut in which she was standing. She dabbed the cloth in her hands in a bowl of cool water and pressed it to the wildling’s brow.

“It’s all right now, lass,” said the midwife who was tending to her. “Just a little longer to go now. Lissen, girl, bring me more straw, this babe’s on its way.”

Sansa’s handmaid scampered out of the hut as quickly as her growing belly would allow and returned with an armful of straw from the stables. She arranged it carefully between the wildling mother’s legs, her eyes growing wide as she watched the child slide forth into the world. At last, the cries of the babe rose and those of its mother faded away.

“You’ve a beautiful daughter,” said Sansa to the wildling.

“Aye, she’d best be,” puffed the woman. “After what I just went through.”

Sansa stifled a laugh and squeezed her shoulder. She turned to Lissen, who was helping the midwife to clean and swaddle the child before it grew too cold.

“Here you are, then, little lass,” said Lissen as she lowered the babe into her mother’s arms. Gently, the wildling woman freed one of her breasts and set the child to suckle.

The midwife quickly swept up the bloodied straw and threw it into the hearth. Wrinkling her nose at the smell, Sansa wished the wildling woman well and made her way to the door. Lissen followed quickly on her heels.

“So, my dear,” said Sansa, taking her maid’s hand, “what do you make of your first birthing?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so afraid and happy at the same moment, m’lady,” said Lissen. She laid a hand on her own belly. “The pain will be terrible, I know, but the way she looked at that babe when she held it…it was lovely to see.”

When Sansa had heard that morning that one of the wildling women’s time had come, she had sent for Lissen and taken her to the village to aid the midwife. Sansa had been surprised to discover that Lissen had never seen a child born, as it was common for the smallfolk to help each other birth and rear their children. But Lissen was the youngest of her mother’s children and had no sisters whose hands she could hold when their time came.

Soon, though, she would have a babe of her own. Gendry, whenever he got the chance, boasted about how his first son would be bigger than him and would wield a sword instead of a hammer. Sansa smiled whenever either of them was near, so high were their spirits.

“Well, let’s return to the castle, wash, and get something to eat,” she said to Lissen. “I’m famished.”

“As am I, m’lady. Who could have known that just being at a birthing could be so tirin’?”

Grinning, Sansa slid Lissen’s arm through hers and set off through the snowy courtyard toward the keep.

 “M’lady Stark,” panted a slip of a boy, appearing from around the corner of the smithy. “There’s a raven come for you.” He held out a rolled missive sealed with wax the color of dark violets.

Slowing, Sansa took it and looked down at the sigil pressed into the wax: it was a three-headed dragon rampant. Her heart jumped into her throat.

Turning to the page, she said, “Make haste, child. Find Sandor Clegane and send him to me.”

* * * * *

Sansa was pacing before the hearth in her solar when Sandor arrived. There was snow dusting his hair and shoulders, though it was quickly melting in the heat of the room.

“You scared a page near to death sending him for me,” he said as he unfastened his cloak and hung it from a hook by the door. “What is it?”

“A raven came with this,” said Sansa, holding out the missive. “Bearing the seal of Daenerys Targaryen.”

“And what does the Dragon Queen have to say to you?”

“I haven’t yet read it. I was waiting for you.”

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” he asked. “Go on, little bird.”

Unrolling the letter with shaking hands, Sansa read aloud:

 

_Tommen Baratheon, son of the Usurper, is King no more. His armies fell before the might of the High Queen of Westeros, Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn and Mother of Dragons, on the eve of the new moon nearly a fortnight past. The Queen has pardoned those who took up arms against her in exchange for their allegiance to the Iron Throne, sparing them from the flames of the dragons_ _Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal. Once her enemies, the Great Houses of Westeros have been united once more. By Royal Decree, the heads of those Houses that have not yet sworn their allegiance to Queen Daenerys are commanded to present themselves before her at the Red Keep upon Aegon's Hill two months from the next full moon._ _Signed this day by Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the Queen._

 

“That little monster!” Sansa cried. “How dare he install himself as Hand to this Dragon Queen? With their defeat, I thought we would be free of the Lannisters. Now here is another, perhaps the worst of them all. The Imp, who was once my husband, commanding Winterfell to bend the knee.” She turned to Sandor, her eyes flashing with the fury that burned in her breast. “I will not do it.”

He regarded her coolly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“When my brother Robb took up the mantle of King in the North,” she said, “he swore that we would never again be subjugated and ruled. He declared the North free. I will not allow us to become mewling servants of the Iron Throne once again.”

“What then?” asked Sandor. “Rebellion and war. What will that bring you? The same fate as your Young Wolf brother? The head of a direwolf sewn to your corpse as it hangs above the damned gate? I saw what a Lannister army can do. What of a Targaryen army led by three dragons and backed by all the might of the South?”

“What might?” Sansa snarled. “The Great Houses have been fighting Daenerys for a year. Their armies, and hers, must be decimated. She could have burned down every keep in the South and ended the fight in a month, but what is a conquered land that is naught but ashes and smoke? She needed them, each one of them, to surrender. There is no Queen without subjects.”

Sandor shook his head. “Even without an army, three dragons could lay waste to Winterfell in a day. All of  _this_  would be naught but ashes and smoke.”

Sansa pinched her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “We have been our own masters since we returned to Winterfell. I will not surrender that so easily, Sandor.”

“Then you had best summon your banners,” he said, “Lady Stark.”

“What?” asked Sansa, looking up at him sharply.

“Little bird,” he sighed, “if you’re going to fight a war, you’re going to need an army. You are not just the bloody Warden of the North. You’re a Stark, and Starks are the Kings of Winter. Write to your bannermen, call them to arms, and see if you can stand against the Targaryen bitch.”

Sansa swallowed heavily. “I never intended to be queen, but if there is no other way…do you believe that I can raise an army?”

“I don’t know,” said Sandor, “but the North remembers their oaths. If they do unite, it will be under no banner but yours.”

“The North remembers,” Sansa mused. “All right. Send for Lissen, will you? I will require parchment and ink.”

Sandor nodded, going to the door. “What do we tell the Baratheon?”

“The truth,” said Sansa. “That he must choose to ally himself with the Dragon Queen or the Queen in the North.”

The ghost of a smile passed across Sandor face as he swung the door open and left Sansa to her correspondence.

* * * * *

Her hands were stained with ink by the time Stannis answered her summons. He had been out hunting with one of the castle’s birds.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, inclining his head. “You wished to see me?”

“I did, my lord,” she replied, rising from behind her writing desk. She held out the letter from King’s Landing. “I received this. No doubt something similar has been sent to Dragonstone.”

He glanced over it, his eyes widening as he read.

“The Imp,” he growled, crumpling the parching tight in his fist. “Cersei Lannister’s bastard is deposed only to be replaced by her conniving brother and his pet Targaryen. And she dares to demand fealty!”

“It is an affront to be sure,” said Sansa. “And that is why I will not deign to indulge them.”

Stannis looked up at her, his eyes narrowing.

“Lord Baratheon,” said Sansa, “my father and your brother, King Robert, were united in their determination to end the tyranny of the Targaryens. They triumphed, but were betrayed by the Lannisters, who now once again stand against us, this time as allies of the Dragon Queen. These past two years, I have rebuilt Winterfell, the seat of my father, who was descended from the ancient Kings of Winter. Now, I would set the North free. I have sent for the Stark bannermen: Reed, Glover, Mormont, Umber, Manderly, Tully, Flint, Wull, Norrey, Liddle, and Westerling. Will you, for the sake of the friendship our families have shared, stand with me as well?”

Stannis regarded her with wary disbelief. “You would unite the North, as your brother tried to do, and failed?”

“I would,” said Sansa. “Which, if I am not mistaken, you were expecting when you came here, my lord.”

If Stannis was troubled by her assertion, he did not show it. “I had considered the notion,” he said. “Tell me, my lady, do you seek to oust the Dragon Queen from the Iron Throne?”

“And in so doing take it for myself?” She shook her head. “I have no intentions of sitting the Iron Throne, my lord. I do not wish to rule over all of Westeros. I only seek to protect my people and to preserve the sovereignty of the North.”

Stannis nodded solemnly, scratching the beard at his chin. “When I still believed that I could retake the Iron Throne from the Lannisters, I wrote to Lyanna Mormont, the child who rules Bear Island, to secure her swords for my campaign. And do you know what her reply was?”

“No, my lord.”

“She wrote, ‘Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark.’” He laughed weakly. “It was written in her own hand, too. A child no more than ten.”

Sansa smiled softly. She, too, had written to Lyanna Mormont, now a young woman of fifteen. House Mormont would rally to her, it would seem, and that fed the fire of her hope.

“Give me some time to consider this undertaking,” said Stannis, clearing his throat. “When will your bannermen arrive at Winterfell?”

“Within a month if the winds are good and the ravens swift,” said Sansa. “I will not expect your answer until then.”

He nodded. “I thank you, my lady…or is it to be ‘highness?’”

Sansa frowned, but said, “That choice is yours, is it not, Lord Baratheon?”

“Indeed it is, Lady Stark. Indeed it is.”

* * * * *

After Stannis had gone, Sansa ordered a bath drawn and soaked until long after the water had begun to grow cold. She had long ago abandoned any girlish dreams of being a queen, yearning only for hearth and home at Winterfell. Yet, she was on the cusp of becoming something far greater than she had dared fancy after she was wedded to Harrold.

“The Starks are the Kings of Winter,” she said aloud, echoing what Sandor’s words. She was the last of the Stark line and now she would be the first Queen of Winter.

As she stood beside her writing desk, freshly dressed in a thin muslin gown, she pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. Sandor had not been wrong to warn her of the destruction the Dragon Queen could wreak upon the North, but she could not bring herself to bend the knee to her either. No, that decision had been made. She would stand for the North, but she would also give her people a choice: stay at Winterfell and fight or return to the South and be spared.

Afraid, as she had not been in many years, she went to the chest at the foot of her bed. Opening it, she tossed the old gowns aside and drew out the tattered and bloodstained cloak that lay at the bottom. She held it to her breast as she had once done when life as Alyane had seemed more than she could bear. It had long ago lost the reek of smoke, instead smelling of the rich wood of the chest. Wrapping the cloak around her shoulders, settling the hood over her hair. Even as she stood, the fabric pooled at her feet, for it had been cut for Sandor when he was a knight of the Kingsguard.

Stepping quietly into the passage, Sansa opened the nearest door and slipped out into the darkness of the winter night. Snow was falling as she entered the godswood, her steps silent in the fresh powder. Going to the heart tree, she knelt.

“Mother, Father, I need your guidance. It has been centuries since we ruled as kings and queens of the North. I am venturing far beyond what I know, and I wish only that you were with me now.”

Sansa looked up into the eyes of the heart tree, its red sap frozen like the tracks of tears upon its face. The wind picked up, making the leafless branches creak and sway. A strange feeling of dizziness swept over Sansa. She reached out for tree’s massive trunk to steady herself, but as her fingers touched the white bark, her vision darkened and she collapsed.

* * * * *

_The forest around her was bright with sunlight that glinted off fresh fallen snow. She squinted._

_“Sansa.”_

_Turning, she found herself staring into the golden eyes of a great black direwolf. The beast was twice the size Lady had been and its coat far darker. It licked its chops, sitting back on its haunches._

_“Hello, sister,” it said, though its mouth did not move._

I am dreaming, _Sansa thought._

_“You are,” the direwolf spoke, its voice oddly familiar to her. “I had to make you sleep or you could not have heard me. I have been waiting for some time to see you.”_

_“Father?” she breathed._

_The direwolf shook itself, barring its teeth in a macabre grin. “No. Father is dead, though I have listened to his voice in the echoes and it is true that I have come to sound much like him. That would please him, I think.”_

_Sansa’s heart jumped as she tried to place the voice. It was deeper now, but it was not so different than when it had belonged to her brother Bran. Slowly, Sansa extended her hand to the direwolf. He pushed his nose into her hand and nuzzled it._

_“Summer.”_

_“He is with me still.”_

_“Bran,” said Sansa, tears stinging her eyes even in the dream. “Where are you?”_

_“Far beyond the Wall,” her brother replied. “But that does not matter now. I must tell you of what is to come, sister.”_

_“How can you know?” she asked._

_“There is no time to explain. You must hear me.” Summer growled low to silence any protests._

_“Winter has come,” said Bran, “and you must rise as its queen, Sansa. Your direwolf is gone, but you have a war hound at your side now. He is bold, and his devotion to you runs deeper than you know._

_“The North must unite if you are to stand with she who wields the ancient flame of Valeryia against the darkness. Only the brightest fire can face the great evil that descends from beyond the Wall and see victory. Turn your eyes northward, sister-queen, or you will never know another spring.”_

_Giving her hand a lick, Summer turned away and began to walk into the forest._

_“Wait!” cried Sansa, trying to run after him, though her feet seemed stuck to the spot. “Bran!” But the wolf did not turn, leaving Sansa alone in the strange wood._

* * * * *

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?” Sandor Clegane growled, starling Sansa awake. Glancing around her, she saw that she was in the godswood at Winterfell once again.

Sandor was in his shirtsleeves, his breath forming a foggy halo around his head. “Do you want to freeze to death for your gods?”

It _was_ cold, Sansa realized. She wondered how long she had been sleeping. Drawing the cloak around her, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Taking you inside.” Grabbing hold of her shoulders, he slid his arm under her knees and lifted her up against him. “You're damned lucky I was sent to find you when you didn’t come for supper, daft woman.”

He carried her through the passages toward her chambers. They passed no one, all of Winterfell’s people having been, presumably, at table. The fire Lissen had lit hours before had burned down to coals when they arrived in Sansa’s solar. Sandor set her down before the hearth. He unclasped the cloak she wore and threw it to the ground.

“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to an armchair. She did. He stoked the fire until it was burning brightly. Sansa pulled off her wet boots and set them next to the blaze. They began to steam almost immediately.

“You have anything strong to drink in here?” Sandor asked, his eyes scanning the room.

“In the cabinet there,” she said.

He poured a cup of wine and held it out to her. “Drink. You're half frozen.”

The alcohol burned down her throat and warmed her stomach. Taking another gulp, she coughed.

“Not that fast,” Sandor scolded, “unless you're aiming to get drunk.”

Sansa put the cup to the side. “Thank you.”

“Are you going to tell me what the hell you were doing out there?” Sandor demanded.

She sighed, rubbing her hands together to warm them. The strangeness of the dream was leaving her now, albeit slowly.

“I needed guidance,” she said at last.

“Get it in the morning,” he snapped. He reached behind him and grabbed the white cloak. “And what the fuck is this?”

“It's yours,” said Sansa, taking another deep drink from her wine cup.

“I know that,” he said, though he looked down at the wool, touching a blood stain with the tips of his fingers. “Why in the bloody hell do you have it?”

“You left it in my chamber,” Sansa said, her head swimming as the wine began to affect her, “on the night King’s Landing burned.” She paused, looking at him. He continued to stare at the cloak. “Do you remember?”

He nodded.

Her brother’s words echoed in her mind as she watched Sandor: “Your direwolf is gone, but you have a war hound at your side…his devotion to you runs deeper than you know.” Bran could have meant no one else but Sandor, her loyal knight master, the man who had kept her safe in King’s Landing, the man who had told her that he would take her away and that no one would hurt her again.

Rising slowly to her feet, Sansa drew in a breath. “That night,” she said, quiet, “why did you come to me?”

Sandor was a black shadow against the brightness of the flames in the hearth. Sansa could not see his face, but she heard him say, “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not? Do I not deserve an answer?”

He sighed, looking down. Sansa glanced over the lines of his profile against the light of the fire.

“Fear,” he said at last. “Fear of the flames…green fire that not even water could douse. I turned craven at the sight of it.” With a disgusted scoff, he threw the cloak to the floor.

“I ran from the battle,” he spat. “Found a lower door into the Keep, the kitchens. The cooks had gone, but they left the flagons of the king's dinner wine on the table. I drank them all while the dying screamed outside. When I breathed, I could taste charred flesh.

“I knew that death was close that night. After so much wine I was sure of its coming. What dog could not be replaced after all? I thought perhaps my brother would take my white cloak.” His voice lowered to a growl. “I hated him more at that moment than I ever had before. I was going to die before I had driven my blade through his chest. He destroyed everything… _everything_ since we were boys and I would die without making him pay for it.”

He turned slowly toward Sansa, though she could barely make out his expression. “Then I remembered you. One thing Gregor hadn’t ruined. I went to your bed to take you.”

Sansa closed her eyes. “Many men who see their ends yearn for a last woman,” she managed to say.

In two long strides, he crossed the distance between them. Grabbing her roughly by the elbow, he snarled, “It would have been cruel and quick! I was too drunk to care that you were an untouched girl. I would have broken you, just like Gregor breaks women. And you were hardly more than a child!” He pushed her away from him. “You weren't in your bed when I managed to stumble into it, so I waited. The wine saved you. I was asleep the moment I fell onto the mattress. When you woke me I had control enough to see what I might have done. I held a knife to your neck to keep myself away.”

Sansa hugged her arms to her chest. “You bade me sing.”

“If I couldn’t go to the worms with your taste in my mouth,” he rasped, “at least I would have the song.”

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, her heart beating loudly in her ears.

“Your cloak,” she said. “There were many nights after that I sought refuge beneath it. I had no love for the man who returned Winterfell to me. I gave him no children, and when I was in his bed I wished he was another.”

Sandor snorted. “You weren't the first to see another man's face when you were abed. Every woman who's had me has fancied a comely man. Even a plain one would do better than this horror.” He flicked the scar on his cheek.

Sansa caught his hand as he lowered it. “I may have been in Harrold's bed, but it was you between my legs.”

His eyes went wide and then narrowed. “Don't lie to me.”

“I am not _lying,”_ she snapped. “Even now, when I take my pleasure, it is always your name on my lips. Sandor—”

Her words were cut short as he pulled her against him. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifted her to his mouth. She could feel the edges of his burned lips, but his kiss was warm and hard. She slid her arms around his neck, her fingers buried his hair.

They drew away from each other a few moments later, both gasping for breath. Sandor’s eyes, darkened and glassy with desire, widened as if he had just recognized her.

 Letting her slide slowly down, he raised his hands to her face. His skin was warm and rough against hers as he explored her features. Sansa shivered as his fingertips grazed over her lips. He pulled his hand away, but she caught it and pressed it to her mouth again, her eyes holding his.

“I want you,” she said, nipping at the pad of his middle finger.

“Why?” His voice was thick, ragged.

She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips. “You are my knight, my champion. So you have always been. Will you have me?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice almost strangled. “Damn it all, yes.”

Holding her face between his hands, he bent until he could ease his mouth over hers. He was unpracticed, unsure, but Sansa reveled in his taste. When she traced his lower lip with her tongue, his mouth opened in surprise, allowing her entry. He groaned, pulling her tighter against him as her tongue brushed against his.

She fisted her hands in his shirt, beginning to tug it free of his belt. He started when she touched the skin of his stomach, the muscles tightening and then releasing. She quieted him with her lips even as her fingers moved over the ridges of old scars. She pushed the woolen shirt up as far as she could reach, allowing Sandor to lift it over his head and off.

She traced a long silver-white trail from his navel to his left nipple, which she circled with her forefinger. Splaying her fingers wide across his waist, she pressed kisses to his chest, up to his heart.

His hands were tentative at first, stroking her waist and her back, fumbling with the laces of her homespun gown. When he had loosened them, she pulled dress down over her shoulders and slid her arms free. Sandor’s eyes followed her hands as she pushed it down over her hips, leaving her in only her silk shift and stockings.

Haltingly, he lowered himself onto one knee and then down onto the other until he was kneeling before her. He let out a shaky breath, the air grazing over Sansa’s nipples and bringing them up hard. Sandor’s hands were warm as he gently cupped one breast, his thumb grazing over its peak. Sansa sighed and slid her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

The hands that roved over her were surer now, grasping tight and possessive. Soon enough, her shift was discarded on the flagstones and Sandor’s fingers had found the silk ribbons that held up her stockings. He released the knots with ease. As the wool fell down around her ankles, he traced the length of her inner thighs with his knuckles. He hesitated, though, as he neared the auburn curls at their juncture.

Sansa sank to her knees as well, pulling him to her for a kiss. Her hands went to his laces. Sandor pressed his lips to the skin just under her ear and then down along her neck. Her fingers frantically worked until the knots were undone and his breeches fell open. She slid her hands into the thatch of dark hair. Freeing him, she traced his length, the skin unmarred and silken.

The sound he made was guttural, almost pained. His eyes were pinched closed, his mouth open as he drew in a ragged breath.

As her hands worked, Sansa pressed kisses along the trail of hair that led from his groin to the middle of his chest. It was bisected several times by smooth scars. When she drew away, Sandor growled in protest, but her firm tug on his breeches made it clear what she wanted. Laying back onto the white cloak, he allowed her to unlace his boots and remove them. Impatient, he lifted his hips and stripped off his breeches before she could.

She looked him over hungrily. His body was well-made, hardened from years of fighting and riding. Taking her by the wrist, Sandor pressed her hand to the ugly red scar on his thigh.  “Does it disgust you?”

“No,” she said, pressing a kiss there.

He gave a shuddering sigh before pulling her up beside him, her skin flush with his. They were both breathing in quick, shallow gasps, and Sansa had begun to tremble. It had been four years since she had had a man, and her body betrayed her by revealing it. It took her a moment to realize that Sandor’s hand upon her, too, was shaking. Though he stroked her hip, his eyes never left her face, as if he thought she might disappear. When she kissed him again, she kept her eyes open, looking into his until they sank closed.

With the slightest pressure she drew him atop her, his hips between her legs and his weight carried on his elbows. He brushed the hair from her face, his calloused hands against her cheeks. He took her nipples in his mouth, running his fingers along her stomach and hips.

With a moan, she brought him to her lips again. Easing her hand down between them, she slid her fingers into the wetness between her thighs. Then, she grasped his cock once more, slickening him. He pressed his face into her shoulder, his mouth open against her skin.

“Sansa,” he breathed as she stroked him.

Her heart tightened in her breast at the sound her name, and she could no longer bear the waiting. Lifting her hips, she guided him to her. They both drew in their breaths, and then Sansa crossed her legs across his buttocks and drew him inside. Her eyes closed as he filled and stretched her. Before she had opened them again, he thrust, making her gasp.

Going still, he looked down at her.  “You won’t let me hurt you,” he said, almost stern.

“No,” she mumbled, nipping his shoulder.  “Again.”

With a groan, he pushed himself deep into her. She cried out, clinging to his shoulders. He settled into a swift rhythm, but Sansa stroked his back, whispering to him to go more slowly. He managed to do as she asked, though it took significantly willpower. Tightening her muscles, she arched up into his thrusts, his cock sheathed to the hilt within her. It was not long before his strength failed.

“I can’t—I must—” he gasped.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, she drove him on. Her name tumbled from his lips as his pleasure washed over him, his body racked with it. She watched, enrapt and aching to answer him.

“Are you well?” she asked when he had stilled, brushing the damp hair from his forehead.

“Yes,” he answered, his voice rumbling against her breast. His eyes would not leave her face. She smiled and kissed his lips. In time, he drew out of her and rolled onto his side, leaving her feeling empty.

“You’ll not go yet,” she said, laying a hand on his chest.

Pulling her to him, he said, “If you wish it.”

“I do.” Nuzzling against his neck, she breathed in the musk of his skin. The warmth of the fire and his body lulled her, making her eyelids sink.

“Do you intend to sleep here?” he asked, stroking her hair. “Let your maid find us in the morning?”

“You wake long before Lissen,” she replied sleepily.

“I haven’t had so good a reason to stay in bed.”

She smiled, but kept her eyes closed. Sandor fell silent, his hands never leaving her. He traced the line of her hip and thigh, along her arm and up to her neck.

She must have slept for a time, for when she opened her eyes again, the firelight had dimmed.  Next to her, Sandor was breathing quietly, his face lax in repose. As she sat up, though, his eyes opened.

To her amusement, his gaze went first to her breasts and then up to her face. Though his skin was terribly marred, she found that it no longer troubled her. Pressing her hands to his chest, she leaned down and kissed the scarred cheek, her lips moving across it until they found his mouth. She had meant it to be a brief kiss, but his hands gently rose to her neck, pulling her to him.

She made a contented sound as she slid on top of him, sitting astride him as she would a horse. Rolling her hips, she traced the length of his cock. Immediately, he began to grow hard again. Already slick with his seed, she glided against him. When she sought her pleasure using her own hand, it took a fair while, but now with Sandor’s hardness between her legs, she felt it coming on with startling speed.

She slowed for a moment, though, to slide him inside her once again. He had seemed content to allow her to have her way with him, but as he entered her, his eyes fell closed and he groaned. Taking his hands in hers, she guided one between her legs and the other to her breast. Brushing against his fingers with the steady roll of her hips, she brought herself to the brink of pain and then over into pleasure.

Her cries came unbidden as she arched into him. A moment later, Sandor’s voice joined hers. She collapsed against his chest as she caught her breath. His skin was damp with quickly cooling sweat, making her shiver.

“You should be in bed,” Sandor said after a time. “Warm beneath the furs.” Gathering her to him, he got to his feet. Sansa wrapped her legs around his hips as he carried her from the solar to her bedchamber. Pulling back the bedclothes, he set her down onto the mattress and then tucked the furs up around her shoulders. She felt very much like a child being laid down to sleep, though what they had just done was not in the least childlike.

“Will you not stay?” she asked Sandor as he turned away.

“I train the guard with the sun,” he said. “I must sleep, and there’s little of that to be had here.”

Reaching for his hand, Sansa brought it to her lips. “There will be other nights, then?” she said, though it was not a question. Even in the darkness, she could see the unmarred side of his mouth lift into a crooked smile.

“Yes,” he said, cupping her cheek. “Many more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooooooo! Double chapter update, you all! I was so excited to add the love scene back into the story (FINALLY) that I just had to post both this chapter and the one before it together. I hope you liked it! More to come soon. Things are just heating up for Sansa and Sandor (and even Stannis, too) now!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is on indefinite hold. I'm very sorry, but things have gotten in the way of updating and it's very hard to pick back up after a year or so. I'll remove this note if I do return to it in the future. Thanks for reading this far if you have.


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